


Benevolentia Malitiae

by Stale_Cinnamon_Roll



Series: Mithridatism [4]
Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: 10k-centric, AU - Altered 10k Backstory, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Oh look! 10k's beard seems to growing in sooner than expected, Pre-Slash, Set during EP105, You can blame Doc for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-07 12:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21458056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stale_Cinnamon_Roll/pseuds/Stale_Cinnamon_Roll
Summary: It can be hard to let go of the past. After all, you wouldn't be the person you are today if all those events - good and bad - had never happened.With the storm baring down upon them, the group seek shelter in Warren's old hometown. Humbled before a force more destructive than himself, it's time for 10k to finally decide: with the slate wiped clean, what kind of person should he try to now become?
Relationships: 10K/Murphy (Z Nation)
Series: Mithridatism [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442032
Comments: 50
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

_A lone wolf sees the wisdom in guarding the sheep and hunting their predators._

_ \-- T. F. Hodge_

It’s good to take a quick break every now and then, to let everyone stretch their legs, to burn off some of the pent-up energy that would otherwise lead them to fidget restlessly in the truck. At least, that’s the excuse that Warren keeps using. Murphy can never make up his damn mind about where he wants to sit – inside the truck where he’s sheltered from the wind, or out in the bed where he can entertain himself pestering the kid. And whichever way he decides, he always comes to regret it. So, Warren is grateful to have such a simple and believable reason to pull over when he starts to get on everyone’s nerves. A reason that won’t give away why she’s really doing it. Can’t have that annoying bastard knowing he’s successfully gotten under her skin. That sort of childish behaviour does not need reinforcing!

They are parked up alongside a long-abandoned gas station, its store shelves as empty as its gas tanks. Nothing for them to scavenge, nothing for them to kill; just wasting a bit of time while it’s peaceful. Good for morale, too.

And speaking of boosting morale, Addy and Mack had snuck off to the other side of the building as soon as it had been declared safe, claiming that they wanted to scout a bit further afield, just in case. They must be getting desperate, not having had much opportunity for alone time since this little road trip of theirs had begun. Maybe if they come across somewhere more secure – a little homey, even – Warren could try convincing Garnett that they should rest up for a bit longer than these impromptu stops, or the occasional overnight camping. They could maybe even take a full day or two, get some real down time in. Goodness knows they need it…

She’s leaning against the truck, Garnett and Doc at her side, Murphy sulking on top of the hood. They’re all watching 10k and Cassandra, the young woman having asked the kid to show her how to use his slingshot. He’d lined up some old bottles against the wall of the gas station, three little make-shift targets for her to aim at, before beginning his lesson. Not that she’s been able to hit any of them – not even close. The marbles they are using as ammo have all harmlessly plinked off the brick wall, bouncing off across the dusty lot.

How well those two have been getting along over the last week or so hasn’t escaped Warren’s attention. Anyone’s attention, for that matter. Maybe it’s because they both started as outsiders while the rest of them had already known each other for some years, barring Murphy of course. It had started fairly simply, Cassandra always choosing to tag along with the kid whenever he had wandered off to scavenge or hunt down any nearby Zs. Pretty soon after, when they had been able to find somewhere safe enough to camp for the night, Cassandra had staked her own claim on the truck bed. And 10k had forgone his usual tree climbing, choosing to stay in the bed with her. Warren had been the one to find them when she went to wake 10k for his watch: they had been huddled under the same blanket, Cassandra’s head resting on the kid’s shoulder… Both of them have struggled with trust or relaxing around others so it was a kind of sweet thing to see.

Although, with how close those two have gotten, Warren hopes beyond belief that whoever was responsible for raising that boy pre-Z had had the sense to teach him about the damn birds and bees. There is no way on God’s green earth that _she_ is having that conversation with him. Maybe it’ll be best to leave that up to Doc…

On another night, one where Murphy had gotten to the bed first, causing Cassandra to sleep inside the truck, Warren had expected the kid to be back up in a tree. She wishes she could say that finding 10k in the bed with him had surprised her, but with how close those two are, too, it really hadn’t. They’d been sharing the blanket, but at least the kid hadn’t been snuggled up as closely with Murphy as he’d been with Cassandra. And with how grumpy the man was the next morning, and how quietly he slept through the next day’s drive, it was easy enough to put two and two together – Murphy had stayed awake with the kid for his watch.

Warren had told only Garnett what she’d seen that night. To test the waters, see how he’d react. When all he’d done was roll his eyes, she’d known that Charlie’s problem with Murphy – whatever it had been – was dealt with. He’s no longer glaring at the asshole when he messes with the kid, too.

Now, the only problem between those three she can see is that the kid has now been watching Garnett much more closely than he had before. Sure, 10k’s always been quietly observant of them all, but this is more than a simple curiosity flitting across his face as he watches the man. It’s like he’s unsure of himself, like he wants to say something but cannot quite figure how to approach or which words to use… And if Garnett has noticed, he’s doing a damn fine job of hiding it.

A glass marble shatters against the brickwork, shards flying in all directions. Seems that Cassandra is starting to get the hang of the slingshot, now able to draw the pouch back far enough for the little projectiles to hit with considerable force. She’s still not hitting the bottles, but she doesn’t let that stop her from raising her fists in a little victory dance, laughing as 10k smiles back at her.

It’s sweet. It really is.

“So, what do you guys think? About Cassandra and the kid?” Doc’s smile is soft, caring, but his eyes twinkle with an amusement that Warren hasn’t seen since Blue Sky. The old guy has been clucking about that boy like a mother hen since they’d picked him up, and no one has been happier than him to see this relationship with Cassandra begin to bloom.

Garnett’s brows are low as he frowns slightly, considering. “They certainly seem to be getting along well. It’s good that they trust each other with their backs, too. Makes them a good team for clearing out Zs.”

“Oh, come on, man – don’t try and play all coy with me, here! You _know_ that’s not what I mean.” Doc turns to Garnett, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“_Please_.” Murphy slides off the hood, smirking as he shuffles towards them. “Like the kid could handle someone like Cassandra. Our sweet little sniper may know how to fire _his own_ rifle, but he wouldn’t know where to begin with a woman, never mind one as feisty as she is. And anyway, even _if_ they’ve gotten closer, it’s not _her_ he’s been watching lately.” His smug smirk still intact, Murphy crosses his arms as he leans against the side of the truck. An eyebrow raised, he sleazily drags his gaze up and down Garnett’s frame.

Another thing about Murphy and 10k that Warren finds herself not being surprised at: with how closely those two keep an eye on each other, never straying far from the other’s orbit, of course he’s noticed how much attention Garnett has been getting from the kid.

Not rising to the bait, Garnett just lets out an exasperated sigh, ignoring Murphy’s crass attempt at humour in favour turning back to watch the intimate little slingshot lesson. Even if he has stopped trying to hog all of the kid’s attention, Murphy’s tactless jokes about 10k are still going strong. It’s probably best if they all just to get used to them – seeing as the kid himself doesn’t seem to mind it all that much, the jokes are likely here to stay.

With the next marble smashing into the wall still some distance from any of her targets, Cassandra drops her head, clearly disheartened. “You could hit them all with your eyes closed and I can’t even get close! I’m never gonna get the hang of this…”

Smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, 10k steps in closer to her. “Been doing it since I was five. Takes practise, is all. Here.” Moving up behind her, his chest almost pressing into her back, the kid reaches an arm around Cassandra to steady the hand holding the slingshot as she readies it once more. “Don’t hold the draw too long. You’ll tense up. Throws your accuracy.”

Cassandra leans back into him, drawing a deep breath before pulling the pouch to her cheek. Beside Warren, Doc’s smile only grows wider. The old guy really does care about these two, the strangers that had joined their peculiar little family only a few short weeks ago. He’s been watching out for them since then, trying to ease them into the group, to help them find their place and relax, so of course he’s enjoying seeing them getting comfortable with each other. Seeing them get this close. And, knowing how much Doc had seemed to like playing matchmaker back at the old camp, there is no doubt in Warren’s mind that the old romantic hopes that they will only continue to get closer still.

Releasing the pouch, the marble smashes against the brickwork much closer to the bottles than any of her other attempts so far. Smile splitting her face in two, Cassandra eagerly loads up another marble.

“Focus on the target, not your hands. Don’t over think it. Use instinct.” While he speaks, 10k lets his hand drop from Cassandra’s arm, instead moving it down to rest on her hip.

As soon as his hand lands, Cassandra flinches, releasing the pouch, causing the loaded marble to fly off wildly. It smashes into the metal shutters locked over the gas station’s windows, a thunderous clattering sounding at the same moment Cassandra’s arm jerks backwards, her elbow slamming into 10k’s gut. As the kid drops with a strange gasping grunt, he reflexively shoves out with the hand that was on her hip, knocking the young woman off balance and causing her to stagger forward in order to right herself. As soon as she’s steady once more, Cassandra spins around to face the kid, her hands raised placatingly.

Whatever apology leaves her lips is drowned out by Murphy’s raucous laughter.

Seems there is still one great hurdle between them: when it comes to hypervigilance, Cassandra and the kid are as bad as each other…

Addy races into view, her hair as wild as her eyes, Z-Whacker at the ready and Mack close on her heels, gun in hand. “What? What happened? What’s wrong?” She frantically looks around, counting heads and searching for Zs. Seeing 10k hunched on the ground, clutching at his stomach and struggling for breath as Cassandra squats beside him, gingerly rubbing his back, the redhead falters. Turning back to those leaning against the truck, Addy raises her eyebrows questioningly.

“Seems Casanova here got a little too _handsy_.” Murphy’s smirk is wider than ever, and Warren cannot resist letting out one of her own.

“Well, he did tell her to rely on her instinct…” With a nod towards their two companions, who are now sitting on the dusty lot, Warren looks at Addy and Mack, not bothering to try holding back her gentle laughter. “They probably won’t need it _just_ yet but keep those two in mind next time you find some condoms. Might have to start sharing your stash.”

“Oh, _fuck_ no.” Mack slings his arm around Addy’s shoulder, frowning down in 10k’s direction. “They’re a rare enough find as it is without having to share. If the kid wants some, he’ll have to get a hold of his own.”

With mirthful smiles all round, they watch as Cassandra finally straightens up, offering a hand and helping the kid to his feet before handing him back his slingshot. Brushing the dirt from his ass, 10k starts to open his bag so he can stow away his trusty weapon inside and–

–his head snaps around, eyes zeroing in on Murphy.

The man in question has himself spun on his heel, facing the gas station. Staring. Just staring…

Garnett starts towards him, his brows lowered as confusion sweeps across his face. “Murphy, what’s wro–”

With a guttural snarl, a zombie sprints from around the building.

Mack grabs at Addy, pulling her safely from the Z’s path. But it doesn’t turn to follow, instead staying on course. Making a beeline for Murphy.

Warren moves quick. Grabs Murphy by the back of his jacket. Yanks him away as the Z’s gnarled fingers reach for him. Scrape at his collar. Rake down his front. Murphy trips, feet stumbling with the sudden momentum. Falls backwards into the dirt. And the Z falls, too. Lurching sideways into the side of the truck, its skull splitting apart. Sliding down the door, leaving a spattering of gore on the window. It crumples to the road, dead.

Glancing over at the kid, seeing his slingshot still raised, Warren gives him a small nod. A thanks. Because that was a close one. _Too_ close.

But the kid doesn’t acknowledge her, his face blank as he rubs at his neck, watching Murphy.

The man is still on the ground, having lurched away from the dead Z, pulling his legs up close as he turns away. Breathing ragged, eyes glassy, expression both distant and fearful: this has happened before. Doc says that it’s like a panic attack, that he forgets where he is, that it’s probably caused by the trauma of what happened back at the prison: from surviving being bitten so many times; from almost being torn apart… Warren can’t blame Murphy on that one – she’s seen what can happen to soldiers returning from a tour, the way that they never quite leave the warzone behind. Being eaten alive isn’t the sort of thing that would be easy to forget…

They all know the drill, though: keep their distance so as to not crowd him, to not panic him further, and just let him breath. Quiet is needed, too, so Doc can talk to him, voice low and soothing as he helps bring the man back to reality.

Murphy’s breathing eventually returns back to a more normal rate, the man slowly clambering back to his feet, so it’s about time for them to head off again.

As they start piling back into the truck, the kid inches by the man whose life he’s once more saved, his worried eyes never leaving Murphy’s face. And the man reaches out to him. Waves him in close. Tugs the blue scarf back into place from where the kid’s spontaneous introduction to Cassandra’s elbow had ruffled it up. Finally relaxing himself, the kid gives Murphy a quick relieved smile as he lifts his gloved hands, smoothing the jacket collar back into place, rumpled from the man’s own run in with danger.

Once Murphy is safely seated inside the truck, 10k closes the door firmly behind the man before he continues his own trek to the bed, hopping up over the side with his usual grace.

“So, what do you think about those two?” Beside her, Garnett nods towards the back of truck, to where the kid is pulling up Cassandra after him. “You think we’re gonna have another pair of lovebirds on our hands?”

“Not sure, but I’ll give Murphy one thing: he’s right about the kid watching you.”

Charlie’s face, all wide eyes and open mouth, making Warren smile. It eases some of the tension from her bones. She always has found him relaxing to be around. There is just something about Charlie’s presence that makes her want to forget: about the apocalypse; about her past.

Sometimes, even about Antoine…

“Not like that, Charlie. Like he wants to talk but doesn’t know how. You know how he is, how he finds these things difficult. Maybe you could help him out?”

With a quick smile of his own, Charlie nods before turning to open the truck door. “Sure, Roberta. I’ll see what I can do.”

~*~*~

It’s a lucky find, this secluded little farmstead they’ve stumbled upon. The main farmhouse itself is still largely intact, its white-painted wooden walls safely secured behind a fully functioning electric fence, the perfect deterrent for the few Zs that like to wander aimlessly on by. The house has a quaint garden, too, complete with flowers and a bird bath. Hell, it even has Old Glory, raised up high and dancing proudly along with the breeze. It truly is the closest to perfect that they’re going to get, and Garnett decides that it’s just the place for them to finally get some much-needed R and R.

Once the Zs had been cleaned out, of course.

There hadn’t been many, just some of the old occupants that had met with an unfortunate fate, but with the ease at which 10k and Cassandra had swept through the rooms, letting the agile young woman draw the Z’s attention to allow for the kid to get in close and pike them from behind, the house was theirs in no time. With constantly seeing the corpses likely to put a dampener on their down time, they had decided that it would be best to pile them up in one of the bedrooms, allowing their little family free reign of the rest of the building.

And while he’s at it, Garnett might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Grabbing the arms of the last Z that needs carted off out of sight, he looks over at the kid. “Could you give me a hand with this one, 10k?”

With a curt nod, the kid passes his cigarette to Murphy, the man taking it without question before sidling over closer to Doc. Slinging his rifle onto his back, the kid strides across the room and grabs the Z by its ankles. Between them, lugging the thing up the stairs to dump it into the back bedroom is light work. Watching Garnett dropping it on top of the other dead Zs, 10k doesn’t leave, instead choosing to linger in the doorway, staring at the man with that same unreadable expression he has been seeing the kid shoot his way since they left Virginia. Since Garnett had warned Murphy to back off from the kid…

And it’s just what Garnett had been hoping he’d do. _Now’s as good a time as any._

“Are you okay, kid? You can come to me with anything you want to. I’ll always be willing to listen, and it won’t go any further.” He tries to keep his voice light but concerned, just like the one Doc uses.

With the usual tilt of his head and lick of his lips, 10k steps fully into the room, closing the door behind himself. Sliding his rifle from his back, the kid leans it against the wall before moving into the centre of the floor, weapon still within reach but not immediately at hand. 10k has isolated them while trying to communicate that it’s not meant as a threat… That’s a good sign, right? Shows that the kid truly just wants to talk.

Thinking it best to respond in kind, Garnett slowly unholsters his own gun before placing it gently on the bed and stepping away.

10k relaxes a little, his posture much less tense, his face now expressing a little more emotion. Still not something that Garnett is able to put his finger on, but more open never-the-less, and a far cry more human than the kid’s habitual, eerie blankness.

With another lick of his lips, the kid asks his question. “What will happen in California?”

Garnett’s brows tighten, his mouth curving downward. It can’t be this simple, right? Surely the kid would feel able to ask _anyone_ for more details of the Mission, not just him. Hell, Doc has told 10k most of it already during their long chats on the road, anyway. “Well, we’ll locate the lab and deliver Murphy safely to them. After that, I’m not sure. Why? You said that you didn’t have anywhere you needed to be. Has that changed?”

10k’s eyes shift, desperately searching for somewhere to look, anywhere except at Garnett himself, a hand reaching up to fiddle with his scarf. “My job is to protect Murphy until the lab.”

_Oh_. Is that what the kid’s been thinking? What he’s been worrying about all this time? That once the Mission is over, they won’t need him, won’t want him around anymore… That they’ll, what, push him away or tell him to leave? “Just because your job will be completed doesn’t mean that you’ll no longer have a place with us. If you want to stay, no one will object to that. You’ve been getting along well with Doc and Cassandra, anyway, so I’m sure they’ll be hoping you stick around.”

“Really?” The kid’s eyes meet his, then, all wide and hopeful and _young_. When he looks like this… No wonder Garnett had gotten all mixed up in his grief… The man hadn’t been able to save the children back at Blue Sky, and then he’d let his guilt mistakenly latch onto the kid, to try and use 10k as a surrogate. To see this young man as a second chance, a way of attempting to redeem himself from his failure…

But 10k isn’t helpless, is he? Watching the kid clear locations or snipe Zs from the back of their moving truck, only for him to then still be able to look like this, or to smile brightly at Doc’s praise, or frown in confusion at Murphy’s more suggestive jokes… Even nestling in close with Cassandra during the night… It really has been an eyeopener for him. He’d been mistaking the kid’s youthfulness with innocence and naivety.

Now, if only 10k _did_ like Cassandra in the way that Doc seems to think he does – that would be the one last Murphy-shaped worry lifted from off of Garnett’s shoulders…

Reaching out slowly, clearly telegraphing his intent just as Doc had taught him, Garnett takes a step forward. Looks down at the kid. Squeezes his shoulder. “Yeah, 10k. We all do. _I_ do.”

Relief lighting up his eyes, the kid quickly turns his head, averting his gaze as a soft pink starts to tease at his cheeks. Clearing his throat in a manner that he hopes doesn’t sound as awkward as it feels, Garnett drops his hand, takes a step back. Goes to turn to reclaim his gun–

“What about Murphy?” 10k’s quiet words cause him to hesitate. To turn back towards the kid. To see that 10k’s face has closed off slightly, not completely blank, but certainly much more guarded than it was just a moment ago. “What will they do to him? Will they hurt him?”

Garnett has been wondering if this was going to come up. No, _when_ it was. He’d hoped it wouldn’t but had planned a response for it, just in case. “I’m not sure what they’ll do, but since it’s Murphy’s antibodies that they need then it could be as simple as drawing some blood. Quick and painless, just like at the doctors.”

“Never been.”

Wait, what? He’s never been to the doctors? Even when he was younger? Garnett is acutely aware of how often little children can get sick as his own kids were no exception. With how atypical – how straight up _bizarre_ – the little pieces of info about himself 10k lets slip make his past seem, Garnett can’t help but wonder…

But, either way, the kid seems satisfied with his premeditated answer, turning to collect his rifle from its resting place against the wall.

“It was my pa.” Slinging his rifle comfortably into place, 10k looks back at him, his eyes soft, a fondly nostalgic smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “You asked where I learned to shoot. My pa taught me, and not just for hunting, you know? Knew he couldn’t always be here to protect me, so he made sure he wouldn’t need to be.”

And with that, the kid tugs the door open and slinks out of the room.

With his own gun once more securely holstered at his side, Garnett shakes his head with a sigh before trudging downstairs to join his family.

_Like I said, bizarre…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which 10k remembers how much he hates reading.
> 
> Then, Murphy tries to put his poker skills to a good use.
> 
> Finally, the author has added some terrible fanart to mark the one year anniversary of starting their planning of this massive project of a series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: terrible fanart at the end of the chapter

Cassandra is asleep, curled up on the sofa across from 10k. She’d asked him to stay close, to keep an eye on her while she slept. And had he agreed. Of course, he had – the kid knows what it’s like. How difficult it can be to try and will yourself to relax enough to drift off – to get the rest that your mind and body are screaming out for – while surrounded by people that you are unsure of. That Cassandra trusts him enough to watch her back when she’s at her most vulnerable… Well, it almost makes him feel _happy._

Can the kid still remember what happiness feels like? He’s not sure he can. It’s nothing like the satisfaction he feels when taking out a Z or putting down a dangerous animal, right? The cold tingle that spreads through his side, trickles up his spine, seeps into his brain, washing away all his anger, his hatred, leaving only a calm, detached acknowledgment that he’s on his way to meeting his goal. That he’s one step to closer to that ten thousandth kill. That, as soon as he finally reaches it, as soon as he’s killed enough… He’d have mastered his craft.

And Ten Thousand will become untouchable.

That’s not happiness. Not how he _remembers_ happiness. But it’s still a feeling he relishes in, never-the-less.

“_Man_. That’s five hands in a row. If you’re gonna continue to use _my_ deck you need to quit pulling cards out your ass.” Doc drums his fingers on the table, emphasising his words.

But Murphy only smiles, sweeping the pills over to his side of the table before grabbing all the cards, getting ready to shuffle again. “Oh, boo hoo.”

It looks like the man is enjoying his game with Doc, his eyes crinkling when he smiles. It’s a nice smile, and one that 10k wouldn’t mind seeing more often, especially if _he_ gets to be the one to cause it. Those little crinkles around his eyes, though… Have they gotten deeper in the short time since they first met? They look like they have, the once faint lines now stretching deep down into rougher, dryer skin. They’d even started appearing when the man frowns, like when 10k had returned from helping Garnett move the last dead Z. Murphy had looked between the kid and the Sergeant, eyes narrowed, mouth turned down, suspicious. But of what…?

“Hey, shhh. Hold on, he’s back on.”

At Garnett’s hiss, 10k leans in his chair, craning his neck to peer into the kitchen. And meets the Sergeant’s gaze. With a warm smile and amused eyes, the man raises his cup in a friendly gesture. The kid can’t help it, liking Garnett. Usually leaders are the people he tries his best to keep his distance from, instead taking orders from members lower down in the group’s hierarchy. He only had to appease them for the scant few days he’s with them before he manages to get his hands on what he needed, anyway. And if there was any lesson he had learned fast and learned well, it was to _avoid the fracking leaders_. Often, it’s the cruellest, the most selfish and self-serving of people who seek out positions of power, who instil themselves as the head of a group. He’d made that mistake once – a mistake that had almost gotten him killed – and he’s determined to never make it again.

But Garnett is different. He genuinely cares about the people around him and wants to see them do more than merely survive. He wants to see them _live_. And when 10k thinks about him, thinks about how he himself now falls under the man’s compassionate vigil, he feels… not _safe_, but _something_. Something that he also feels with Doc. That he hasn’t felt in a long time, since another life. Something that reminds him of _Pa_…

A reedy voice wavers in and out over the radio’s static but the kid doesn’t listen. He doesn’t _care_ enough to. Whatever that Government drone is saying, whatever orders and observations the guy is dishing out, the kid wants no part in it.

Not when he could be watching Murphy instead.

Watching how the man shuffles the deck, cards dancing between his fingers. His hands are nimble, skilled, effortlessly going through motions he’s likely repeated again and again in order to perfect. Murphy is as adept with his tools and chosen game of deception as Ten Thousand is with his own.

And it’s beautiful to watch…

Maybe Murphy can show him how he does it. Would be willing to teach him. Then the kid would be able to see those skilled hands working up close. And if they’re alone? Well, 10k is sure that there are a few tricks he could show Murphy in return…

“You okay there, 10k?”

Garnett’s soft words snap the kid out of it. Frack. He’d been staring. At Murphy. The handsome man has stopped his shuffling, now staring back at the kid, eyes once more narrowed, face etched with those deep lines. And Doc is watching, too, his own wrinkled face cautious but inquisitive.

Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Murphy, 10k looks instead towards Garnett. The Sergeant is lingering, cup in hand as he stands in the doorway. And he looks… worried? Not an unusual look for the man – Garnett has a lot to be concerned with: his mission; his group; his route through the Apocalypse… And now about 10k, too. Not due to the suspicion that the kid is used to seeing on leaders, though. This is actual, honest concern. And it’s almost… paternal.

_Fatherly._

A tightness in his chest. A heat across his face. The kid drops his eyes. He doesn’t know where to look, but he knows where he _shouldn’t_. Garnett. He can’t look at him. Not right now. Answering the man’s question with a sharp nod, he leans to the side, snatching up his rifle. Fiddling with it.

He’s gonna fix that fracking scope!

“Well, you’re welcome to come join me and Warren outside if you need some fresh air.”

10k doesn’t answer him. Well, not with words, anyway – he doesn’t trust himself enough to. Instead, he gives a grunt, a little noncommittal noise, as he digs around in a pocket for his cloth. His eyes may be lowered, but the kid still watches with his peripheral: the look Garnett gives to Doc, eyebrows raised; the way the old man returns it with a nod and a smile; the way Murphy’s lip curls up, baring his teeth as his glare burns a hole into the back of Garnett’s head…

He can’t deal with this. With anyone. With _people. _And especially with Garnett. Because of this feeling, the one he cannot name. It’s too much. Too strong. Too new and old at the same time.

Instead, he glares down at his rifle. It’s in his hands, safety on but still loaded. Poor form, he knows, but he can’t _not_ leave it loaded. Not right now. Not with how he’s feeling. It’s loaded and it’s in his hands and there is no one in immediate need of a bullet. That means he’s safe. That he can relax. Maybe not enough to sleep, but enough to clean his scope. To finally fix it.

But it doesn’t work.

Just like the last few times he’s tried.

Scopes need regular maintenance, little rituals of upkeep that stave off faults and prolong life. _Prevention is better than cure._ He’d thought that maybe it was due to the less frequent bathing. That the oils in his skin – on his _eyelashes_ – had been smearing on to the lens, making it blurry. But he’s wiped and wiped and wiped again, smooth and regular circles of his microfibre cloth, even a light spritz of cleaning fluid on the soft fabric. And nothing. No improvement. He’s always left with that fracking blur, not so bad as to be an actual problem but still noticeable enough that–

That what? That it’s going to make him angry? Make him throw his rifle on the ground like a toddler having a tantrum? Acting that way won’t get him anywhere and it won’t get him anything but an _actual_ problem. A cracked lens would leave him a far sight worse off than a slightly – _minimally – _blurred one does.

With a light sigh, the kid leans his rifle back up against the wall, snatching a magazine from the table instead. Reading. He’s never liked reading. Never understood why someone would choose to just sit there for hours, staring at little letters that make up little words. Little words that then refuse to stay put, to make sense. No, he’d much rather be _doing_ something – fishing, hunting, cleaning his rifle and sharpening his knives. Apart from those guidebooks on flora and fauna and the one on wilderness medicine that Pa had forced him to memorise as a child, 10k had long decided that his time will be better spent as far from books as possible.

And this magazine only solidifies that long-held tradition.

In-depth guides to growing out your hair or choosing the perfect cut? Why would he need to know that? He keeps his hair short simply because there was no reason to have it long. Whenever it had grown to the point that he could grab a solid fistful, he hacks it back down with a knife. Having an _‘adorably on trend pixie-cut’_ doesn’t mean much if you’re dead.

And weight-loss tips? This magazine is only a few years old and already it’s painfully dated! Ten Thousand has lost enough blood, broken too many bones, spent more precious _bullets_ than he’s even bothered to keep track of, all in the name of winning his next meal. _‘Accidentally going overboard with the carbs’_ is the furthest thing from his mind when his only solace while wrapping bruised ribs is that he’d managed to swipe a few bags of chips and half a box of Twinkies. So _why_ would this magazine’s nutritional advice still be relevant when all it can tell you foodwise is that you shouldn’t become _‘too overwhelmed with guilt when you treat yourself to a slice or two of bread when confronted with leftover turkey’_‽

He flips from page to page, each one filled with more useless information than the last, all pink and flowery and out of touch with the world he’s stuck in.

Even their _‘Risqué Romance’_ feature is useless to him. _‘How to keep your man coming back for more!’_ Why the frack would he want that? All sex is for is helping someone scratch their itch so that they’ll they scratch yours. A mindless, pleasurable indulgence shared with a stranger to help block out the brutality of the world, before putting a few miles between them by dawn. Nothing more to it. So, he sees no need to stick around long enough for the man to start getting attached to him. It’s how he’s lived his life since all this began, and he’s content with that. Content to keep wandering alone through the Apocalypse.

But he’s not alone, now, is he?

If Garnett is right, if he has found people that truly want him to stay with them, people that he himself wants to stay with… If that has changed, couldn’t the same one day be said about the sex? That one day he’ll find a man who’ll see him for who he truly is in all his bloody, violent glory… and will still ask Ten Thousand to stay? A man that he’ll _want_ to please, _want_ to be gentle with for a change. A man he’ll _want_ to protect…

10k takes a deep, ragged breath. The magazine falls into his lap, slides onto the floor. One hand sinks into silk, the other rakes blunt nails down his neck. Along the back. Where the hairs are prickling.

His grey eyes lift, drawn to Murphy’s own blue. The man is staring. How long has he been staring? _Why_ is he staring? But the man quickly looks away, snatching up the cards that Doc has dealt.

Murphy can never be that man, can he? The one 10k will want to protect. It’s a stupid thought, one the kid refuses to even entertain. Sure, their road to California may eventually lead to him being able to entice the handsome man into his bed – and maybe even more than once! – but nothing could ever come of it, even if he wanted it to. All things eventually come to an end, even relationships, but with Murphy? That line had been drawn in the sand long before they had even met. Whatever form their relationship may take, it will end as soon as the man walks into that lab.

Murphy could no longer belong to anyone else the moment chose to belong to the Government.

Quietly pushing up from the armchair, 10k slowly slinks closer to Cassandra. She’s still sleeping peacefully on the sofa, but the blanket has slipped off of her. That he should drape it back over is an easy decision to make. The difficulty lays in _how_. He crouches down next to her, assessing the situation: she’d felt terrible about winding back at the gas station, apologising again and again despite him telling her after the first that it wasn’t necessary. He’d touched her, startled her. And she reacted instinctively, a reflexive defence.

For her sake, he’ll not be making the same mistake again.

One of Cassandra’s hands is tucked beneath a pillow, a tactic he himself also favours. With a smile threatening to twitch at his lips, 10k gently begins to draw the blanket back over her, his eyes never leaving the slender wrist that ends with the hidden hand gripping her knife. She likely never sleeps without it, even keeping it at hand when they share the truck bed.

As the blanket slides further up her body, he doesn’t stop watching. Carefully looking out for it. For any signs that she–

There!

He yanks his hands back and out of range of the knife as it arcs, plunging downwards to pierce through the offending blanket and sink into the sofa beneath. His own hand follows deftly behind Cassandra’s own, gentle as it folds over her tensed fingers, rubbing small, hopefully soothing circles into her flesh. Her eyes now open, instantly alert and scanning the world around her, 10k finally allows a smile. “The blanket…”

“Shit, Ten! I’m… I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be.”

As Cassandra pushes herself into a seated position and rubs at her tired eyes, 10k dislodges the knife from the sofa, placing it on the table behind him. With an exhausted smile, the young woman shifts along her makeshift bed, expectantly patting the space where her head used to be. It’s an invitation. One that he accepts with another smile. Leaning back into the arm of the sofa, Cassandra resting her head upon his chest, 10k draws the blanket over them both.

“Scared of that one.” Murphy’s words are little more than a low grumble, barely audible by the time they reach 10k’s ears.

“Best not to mess.” Doc has turned from them, his eyes back on his cards.

“At least Casanova here has learnt his lesson. Took that nice and slow…” 10k is straining his ears. He likes Murphy’s voice. It had soothed him, helped him drift off that night that they slept side by side in the truck bed. “You know, if there was a way to breed those two, it’d be all over for the zombies.”

The handsome man turns to him, catches him watching. Saying nothing, instead only throwing his usual smirk followed by a wink that makes the kid’s stomach tighten, Murphy returns to his game with Doc.

Slowly circling an arm around Cassandra’s waist, 10k pulls her in closer. He’s gotten used to this – to her touch, her warmth. They’d spent long nights pressed together, huddled under his blanket in the truck bed, sharing stories. Turns out that they have much more in common than either had first realised. Neither of them had had the luxury of a camp or family group like the one Garnett and Warren had formed. Had protected. No, instead both of them had fought tooth and nail, day and night, all for the chance to see just _one more dawn_. And while the costs had been different, the price was still same: their bodies. For Cassandra, it had been electrical burns and groping hands; for 10k, stitching wounds and setting bones.

But they had done it. They had survived, each trial only leaving them stronger and more determined to live than the last.

He buries his face into her hair, something he finds to be oddly comforting. It smells sweet. Sweet like the wildflowers that had dotted a riverbank on a lazy midsummer’s day.

The last thing 10k sees before finally drifting off is a pair of curious blue eyes.

~*~*~

A few hours. That’s how long Murphy had been cooped up in the back of the truck, stuck watching Addy and her boyfriend making eyes at each other, before Warren had mercifully pulled over. She’d spotted a car, blue paint faded and rusty, abandoned on the grassy verge beside the road. Its hood crumpled, doors left splayed open, an obvious victim of reckless driving. Seriously, what kind of idiot had been driving that thing? There is enough danger to be found in the Apocalypse without adding careless drivers into the mix. Just because the open roads are devoid of any other traffic doesn’t mean you can’t still lose control and go careening into a damn ditch!

Some people must _really_ want to tempt fate.

Luckily for them, however, it appears the idiot of a driver has left them a wonderful gift. One that takes the shape of a gas tank still half full. Doc had been his usual overly chipper self as he had grabbed the spare gas canister from the bed and skipped his way back over, closely followed by Garnett, the Sergeant joining him in order to hold the canister steady as it fills.

Fucking _Garnett_. Always looking for a way to help out. To play at being the perfect saint.

Guess it was only natural for a man like that to snatch away the kid’s attention…

Supressing his frown – because Murphy is a goddamn adult, not some moody _teenager_ – he presses at the soft lump in his jacket pocket. It’s a pair of socks. The ones that he’d found back at the farmhouse while everyone had been on viscera clean-up detail. Not that it was particularly messy: the kid is almost frighteningly efficient in how he breezes through rooms with Cassandra at his side, taking care of any Zs together without breaking a sweat. _Guess teamwork really does make the dream work…_

He’d been able to do some sly rummaging, to pocket a few things for himself without being noticed as no one had bothered to assign him any work on their little roster of chores. The socks been stuffed into one of the cupboards along with a few other odds and ends, their pastels shining out to him like a beacon amidst a sea of worn greys and faded blacks. As soon as he had clapped his eyes on them, he’d known that they were the perfect find. With a soft blue that reminded him of that scarf, and dotted with little cartoony bees, the socks are adorably tasteless. Just like 10k.

His other gift – those marbles he’d been punched by Garnett for – had been useless. His little Princess had accepted them with a smile but, after inspecting them, had told Murphy that they were too light, which would make them hook when fired at any great speed. He’d kept them, though, stashing them away inside of his bag like a squirrel burying his nuts. Said that ricochets and shattered glass aren’t a good combo outside of frags and claymores.

There is something really fucking wrong with that kid, but that’s also kind of why Murphy can’t help but like him. Which is why he’d grabbed these socks. To make up for the marbles.

Not that Ten’s gonna get his grubby little mitts on them, now. If he wants cute socks, he can ask _Garnett._

Scratching at his scraggly beard, Murphy can’t help but to let out a sigh. A long and laboured one, drawing looks from Addy and Mack. Not that he pays them any mind. There isn’t any use sulking about this as it was bound to happen sooner or later. It _always_ does. Another man always catches her eye, someone _nicer_, someone with a perfect smile to go along with their perfect life, and then she leaves. And Murphy is alone again.

So, no point sulking about it. It’s not like he fancies the kid or anything, he’s just enjoying the distraction. And there’s no point staying cramped in this truck with that sickeningly romantic couple, either. With how Doc has been struggling to get the gas flowing, he might as well take advantage of this impromptu rest stop.

Pushing himself out of the truck, Murphy takes a moment to stretch, to rub at his stiff neck muscles and aching back. Sure, the truck is roomy enough, but his height can be a bit of an inconvenience at times, especially on long drives cramped up in a back seat. Shame the bed is so cold…

Taking a step forwards, Murphy falters as a weight lands on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. A boot. It’s a damn boot. On his shoulder. 10k, perching on the roof of the truck, has gone and put his _boot_ on Murphy’s _shoulder_! And the inconsiderate bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look up from his damn rifle. No, he’s just still staring out across the horizon while daring to muddy Murphy’s jacket with the filthy sole of his worn-out _fucking boot_!

“Do you mind?”

“No.”

With a disgruntled shrug, Murphy harshly dislodges the grimy foot before spinning to face the culprit. And there the kid is, without even a modicum of decorum, gawking off into the distance as if he wasn’t just using the damn Saviour of Humanity as a lowly footrest! 10k may not have the integrity to actually face him, but that doesn’t mean that Murphy cannot see it. It’s clear as day, the little tug at the corner of the kid’s mouth, trying not to smile.

“You might _think_ you’re being cute and all, but I’m not dumb enough to fall for your act, Princess. I know you’re being a _little shit_ on purpose.”

10k finally looks at him, little more than a glance, before turning back to his rifle with another twitch of a smirk. “…Might be.”

A traitorous snort of laughter escapes Murphy’s lips. Okay, fine. The kid knows how to – quite literally – stick to his guns, the man will give him that. Turning back towards the abandoned car, Murphy idly watches as Doc feeds a pipe into its gas tank. Behind him, he hears 10k begin to shift, the lyrical clank of the kid’s rifle against the roof his only forewarning. Then comes the light thump of boots as Ten lands in the grass beside him. Murphy doesn’t even have to look at the kid to know what’s coming next: the familiar rustling of fabric followed by the distinct click of a lighter.

Dropping his head low to stick it back into the truck, Murphy raises his eyebrows at Addy before backing away from the vehicle, coaxing the kid to follow as the redhead gives him an appreciative smile. The young woman isn’t a fan of the smell and had asked him for a small favour. A little courtesy. So of course, he’d oblige. She’s asked him politely, after all. She’d even said ‘please’.

As he moves away from the truck, Warren shoots him a glance, her mouth dropping open to chastise him, but she quickly closes it again. The woman doesn’t even bother shouting at him anymore, her orders no longer barked. No need, not with Murphy’s heavily armed shadow a few silent paces behind him. Instead, she just goes back to gazing lovingly at _Garnett_. Seriously, though, what is with that guy? What does he have that Murphy doesn’t? Both girls _and_ guys stare after him with pure _adoration_… Some people really do have all the luck.

Snatching the cigarette and taking a long, soothing drag, Murphy looks at the kid. _Really_ looks. Grimy black hair that appears to have been butchered rather than cut. Worn greys and faded blacks that barely hide old, unidentifiable stains, with too many straps and belts and even a scarf trailing off a slender waist. Dark brows, one of which is sliced in half by a silvery scar, hovering over pale eyes that are sharper than such a soft face should hold. And that little grin, all lopsided and cute. Cuter than such an odd-looking young man has any right to be…

But that captivating smile is no longer aimed at just him.

Handing back the cigarette, Murphy brushes at some non-existent dirt on his shoulder, holding his voice steady as he attempts to feint nonchalance. If he can beat Doc at poker without having to cheat, he can bluff a kid. “You may not have noticed this, Princess, but I’m more of a chaise longue type myself. If it’s a footstool you’re after, Garnett’s over there.”

The eyebrows knit together, 10k tilting his head as his smile fades to a frown. If the kid is feinting his confusion, it’s remarkably realistic. _Good job he doesn’t play poker…_

“I’ve seen it, Ten. The way you smile at him.”

10k does his old lip lick before standing straighter, taking a quick drag before passing the cigarette back once more. “Smile at Cassandra, too.”

“Yeah, but that’s completely different and you know it.”

The kid just stares at him, face still displaying picture perfect confusion. Taking a puff, Murphy weighs his options, tries to discern the type of game that 10k is playing. Is he wanting Murphy to say it out loud, to verbally acknowledge one of the secrets that the kid has been keeping from his new family? Or is he trying to call his bluff, hoping that the man just drops it in favour of preserving this silence, of leaving this truth left unspoken?

Well, tough shit. This is Murphy’s game, not 10k’s. And Murphy is always ready to call out a bluff.

“I had already served quite a bit of my sentence before shit hit the fan, kid, you know that? There isn’t exactly a lot of women available in a _men’s_ prison so some of the guys got a little _desperate_. And prisons aren’t known for being paragons of privacy.” Offering the cigarette, Murphy leans in closer as 10k reaches out for it, the man’s other hand coming up to tease at blue silk as his voice drops to little more than a gravelly whisper. “Seen a lot of shit in there, Princess, but none of it was as gay as _you_ are.”

10k pulls back, his narrowed eyes seeming darker than before. Face otherwise that disturbing blank, his stare is locked onto Murphy. And the man doesn’t to look away. _Refuses_ to. He’s not gonna back down from the kid, not when he’s called him out. Murphy _won’t_ let him win this one. Not even as the kid’s lip begins to draw back, baring sharp teeth. 10k’s threat isn’t real, just another bluff. Murphy knows this. It’s the kid’s job to protect him, after all. But right now, with 10k’s pale eyes boring into his own blue, Murphy cannot deny the creeping of fear. The slight tremble of his hands. The way his confidence begins to waver. Because, right now, Murphy feels like _prey…_

But in a few mere heartbeats it’s all over. The kid looks away, watching Doc screw the cap on the gas canister before hefting it back towards the truck. 10k raises the cigarette to his lips for one final drag. “You’re right. I _do_ like Garnett.” Flicking the butt off into the grass, 10k turns back to Murphy, his face once more peaceful. Placid. Deceptively _benign_. “But I like him the same way I like Doc.”

At her sharp whistle, they both glance towards the truck, to where Warren is waving them back. Everyone else has already reclaimed their seats, now waiting on Murphy and 10k to retake their own. Or someone else’s, in Murphy’s case, what with how Cassandra is grinning at him from his.

Going to take a step, to start his short walk back, 10k hesitates, looking back at Murphy. Reaching out his hand, Ten brushes his fingers against the man’s shoulder, wiping away specks of imaginary dirt before letting his hand wander inwards, smoothing down the collar.

And when he speaks, the young man’s voice is hushed, almost carried away by the same gentle breeze that teases at his scarf.

“Murphy. It’s not Garnett I’m choosing to share cigarettes with.”

Turning again, this time for real, 10k slinks back to the truck, tapping his fingers along the glass window separating him from Cassandra before pulling himself up into the bed with the graceful fluidity that Murphy has come to expect. With a fond smile, the kid raises a hand, an offer to help the man up into the bed once he arrives.

Making his own way towards the truck, Murphy pauses only to tenderly extinguish the cigarette butt. Best not to let that ember remain. After all, he’ll be woefully ill-prepared should that small spark grow into a raging inferno.

~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please tell me that I added the photo of the sketch correctly...
> 
> So, chapter count has gone up. Because I'm terrible at estimating word counts. This is something that's likely to happen again in the future. Every story, if I'm being honest...
> 
> Hope that you liked this chapter. Any and all comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Next chapter should be up next weekend.
> 
> <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which 10k has the audacity to ignore Murphy.
> 
> Then, Cassandra informs Murphy that 10k has never seen porn.
> 
> Finally, Murphy really cannot let that porn thing go, because of course he can't.

It’s remarkably… normal. Castle Point, that is. Murphy cannot help but notice that Warren’s hometown doesn’t suit the impression he has of the woman. While she is a formidable force to be reckoned with, her place of origin is just… here. Present. Nothing more. In fact, it even looks like every other small, insignificant town Murphy has had the misfortune of passing through, even before the Apocalypse. He’s more of a city guy himself, you see, favouring the hustle and bustle of a fast-paced lifestyle, the very things that draw in the crowds that he can blend into while trailing a mark. Small towns like Castle Point have none of that. If he’d have been unfortunate enough to have grown up in a place like this, Murphy is positive that it wouldn’t have taken as long as it had for him to end up in the dock.

Idling by the truck, he’s trying his best to ignore Doc’s inane chattering to instead watch as Garnett and Warren scour an information board in the centre of town. Quietly lighting up a cigarette, Murphy steels himself to defend it, determined to savour this one in its entirety. Not many of them left, what with how 10k has been helping himself to the man’s stash.

But the expected grabby hands don’t materialise.

Murphy hadn’t planned on loitering back here with the rest of them, fully intending to follow Garnett, to make sure that the soldier doesn’t get distracted by something frivolous or make an idiotic promise on his quest to please Warren. Seriously, the man has not been discreet when it comes to his infatuation with his second-in-command. Hell, Murphy wouldn’t put it passed the love-drunk idiot to waltz out into the oncoming storm wearing only his birthday suit if it had the slightest possibility to make that cold-hearted woman smile.

Yeah, he had fully intended to follow them…

But as soon as Murphy had started to move away from where the truck is parked, to leave the safety of their vigilant little group, 10k _hadn’t_. The kid had stayed standing on top of the truck’s roof, alternating between glaring at his rifle and scanning the horizon, not even noticing that Murphy – the very person it’s his damn _job_ to protect – is sauntering off alone, all exposed and vulnerable. So, the man had ambled back, inconspicuous, to watch the kid while making a valiant attempt at blocking out whatever Doc and Cassandra were moaning about.

The kid has been doing this a lot the last few days, letting his awareness drop to almost non-existence as he fixates on his damn rifle. It’s usually followed by him running his hands through his grubby hair in frustration, making that nest even more of a mess than it already is. And when he really starts fretting, when it’s about to get to the point that the others might take notice, Murphy always steps in, distracting 10k, drawing the kid’s attention towards himself. No point in letting his little Princess ruminate – that’s a road the man himself has travelled numerous times, and it never ends well, so of course Murphy is going to nip that shit in the bud before it has a chance to even _consider_ growing out of control. Not that it takes much to distract 10k: as soon as Murphy takes a step away from the group, the kid would be right behind him, rifle firmly in hand and a beautiful façade of obedience perfectly in place. Or a damn boot on his shoulder…

Except for just now.

It hadn’t worked.

It’s the same glaring and staring as all the other times before this but, for whatever reason, Ten didn’t drop his morose musings to fall in step behind Murphy. Fuck, 10k hadn’t even spared him a quick glance! Maybe… Maybe there actually _is_ a problem, then, instead of the kid just being overly paranoid. And if it’s something to do with his rifle? Well, Murphy wouldn’t exactly be able to help Ten out with that. Not anywhere near his area of expertise.

Garnett’s, however…

“It’s so green… I never seen a sky look like _that_.” Cassandra’s uncertain words finally pull Murphy’s eyes away from the kid above him, turning them instead towards the sky.

The young woman is right. Once innocuous clouds have become dimmer, darker, now looming over Murphy. Their once light greys now murky and indistinct, tainted by an unnatural tinge, a hint of something abhorrent, something that simply shouldn’t _be_. And yet, here they are, watching over him, their presence vaguely ominous, an imminent, ambiguous threat.

But, honestly? This doesn’t scare Murphy. Not really. Because this force he has found himself face to face with is one that will always be beyond his control, one with a scope far too vast for him to escape. All he can do is surrender – _yield_ – then prey he’ll be allowed to remain alive and unbroken.

As Murphy takes a sluggish drag of his cigarette, Cassandra continues, granting him relief from such a despondent reverie. Relief he’s honestly grateful for. “I’ve only seen tornadoes on TV.”

“Explains why you get along so well with Princess, here.” Oh, so _that’s_ what gets 10k’s attention, the kid’s head finally turning to look at him. _About damn time…_ Not that Murphy will meet his gaze, letting his eyes wander down to Cassandra instead. “Not exactly normal to find the damn _Weather Channel_ so riveting, not when there are better things to watch.”

“Like what?” 10k’s voice is soft, a much welcome intrusion, the kid now sitting on the truck’s roof, his legs dangling over the edge while he cradles his rifle in his lap. He’s finally watching Murphy closely, too, once more affording the man the proper amount of attention he deserves. Might as well help 10k stay focused on what’s important.

“_Anything_ is better than those self-important weather boys. Gameshows, infomercials, even those cheesy Hallmark movies.” Leaning against the back of the truck bed, Murphy flicks some ash into the wind with what he hopes is an eye-catching flourish. “Hell, it’s been long enough that I’d probably settle for watching porn for the damn story…”

And there it is, the soft crunch of gravel as 10k’s boots hit the ground before they pad their way over to take their place at his side. Predictably pilfering the cigarette – an endeavour that is only a success because Murphy _lets it_ be so! – the kid slings his rifle onto his back while glancing around with an adorably bright smile. “So, it _is_ good!”

Doc lets loose a jovial laugh, his eyes dancing as the wrinkles around them deepen. Stepping forward, the old hippy gives 10k an affectionate clap on the shoulder, his approach just slow enough for the kid to lean into such a loving touch rather than shrinking away from it. _He really has come a long way since Doc first decided to drag him along with us…_

Scooting in close to lean against the truck beside Murphy, Cassandra brushes her elbow along his side while an overly innocent smile spreads across her face. “Ten’s never seen porn.”

“Bullshit.” That can’t be true. There is _no fucking way_ that 10k hasn’t seen _porn_! He was already a damn teenager before the Zs. And as someone with personal experience of being a horny teen boy, Murphy cannot even _begin_ to fathom such a possibility. What kind of red-blooded young man – especially one as straight up _lascivious_ as Ten can come across while they’re alone – has _not seen porn_‽ “Even if you couldn’t get an adequate internet connection in your damn _cave_, you seriously think I’ll believe you never snuck out of bed, turned the TV down low, and indulged in some late night Skinemax?”

Cocking his head, the kid slides seamlessly into his confused puppy look. The one that hasn’t worked on him in weeks, not since Murphy had seen the delicious faces 10k can truly make. Then again, he supposes that this little act isn’t for _his_ benefit anymore, rather it’s meant for the kindly old guy standing at the kid’s side. “Didn’t have a TV. Generators were expensive.”

10k’s good, Murphy can clearly see that. He has obviously mastered the basics, knows the advantages of controlling how others perceive you as well as the importance of steering the conversation towards a safer topic, to one that won’t risk exposing the façade for what it really is. Murphy himself could likely be tempted into this particular trap, to allow the kid some control in exchange for getting a chance to pry further into his past. But, as tantalising as learning more about 10k’s atypically off the grid childhood is, the man’s pride won’t be letting him lose so easily. Not this one. The kid certainly would be a worthy opponent if this wasn’t a game that Murphy has been playing since before Ten was even born.

So, if 10k doesn’t want the conversation to go down a certain route, then that is exactly the way that Murphy is going to push it.

Quirking an eyebrow at a rather amused Cassandra, Murphy turns to him, leaning in to do some looming of his own. “Then how did you gather material for your spank bank, Princess? If you’ve not even seen a nudie mag, what did you have to settle for? A Sears catalogue with a worn-out lingerie section?” Murphy gently wrests his cigarette back, blue eyes never leaving the young man’s darkening grey. Taking a single slow drag, he exhales with a smirk before flicking the butt away. “Oh, wait, sorry. How _presumptuous_ of me. Was it a sports magazine? Men’s fitness?”

His grin only widens as 10k glowers up at him, the mask starting to slip. The heavy depth seeping into his grey eyes. The slight lowering of his brow. The little curl of his lip, exposing a slither of teeth. Cute, but dangerous. Just what he has come to expect from his little Princess. A face he brings out for Murphy, and Murphy alone.

But as Doc sighs, responding to Murphy’s antics with the old guy’s usual exasperated scratch of his beard, 10k’s face softens. Turns his head to meet that fatherly gaze. Draws Doc into their game. _How interesting…_ It seems that, when the kid knows that he’s likely to lose, he has no qualms in sacrificing himself in order to ensure his opponent cannot win. A beautiful, mutually assured destruction. And with a name like Ten Thousand, Murphy doesn’t find himself all that surprised how casually his little bodyguard adds himself to his ever-increasing body count.

With a little squeeze of 10k’s shoulder, Doc makes a move of his own in the game he is not aware has been playing out before him, ending it by crowning no victor. “What about your friends, kid? Did you not watch TV while with them?”

“No.” Shrugging Doc’s hand off, 10k steps away from him. From all of them, choosing to weather the fallout alone. Eyeing the dark clouds swirling above, the kid frowns, a hand snaking up into predictable, comforting silk. “But… He played songs for me.”

Doc’s face lights up, his eyes shining with that banally paternal joy that is painfully obvious to everyone except the one it’s aimed at. Not that Murphy will begrudge the old hippy this one: Ten doesn’t often open up about his time wandering alone through the Apocalypse, and even less so about his life before.

Murphy shoots Cassandra a quick look, the young woman meeting it with a hopeful one of her own before turning her attention back to the kid. She’d confessed to Murphy that, even during their long, late night talks about all the horrendous shit that the world has thrown at them over the last few years, she’d failed to get much about 10k’s pre-Z days out of him. Sure, the kid has little problem talking to her about his struggles to survive, or going into unnecessarily graphic details on zombie kills with the rest of them, but if his childhood is usually off limits, then the actual _people_ from it are a straight up No Go Zone. 10k has made no secret of his disdain when someone doesn’t heed his warnings, when they try to push the topic, even if that someone is Doc. The little that they _do_ know, he’d volunteered unprompted, insights meted out purely by the grace of the kid’s own agency.

So, for Ten to have only closed off slightly rather than shutting them out completely… Well, surely, it’s worth it as he had actually answered Doc’s question with little of his usual avoidance. That progress, no matter how stilted, is still progress, right?

Fortunately, it seems that Doc isn’t quite feeling satisfied, evidently emboldened enough into trying to push the issue further. As he gives 10k his patented fatherly smile, Doc takes a single, tentative step forward. And when the old hippy speaks, his voice is that well practiced calm, holding no trace of the apprehensive eagerness they all feel. “What’s he called, your friend? What was he like?”

10k looks at them. He tears his eyes away from those ominous, looming clouds and _just looks at them_.

And Murphy wishes he hadn’t.

The man doesn’t know what is worse to see: the sadness marring such a beautiful face, or the pain flooding into those pale eyes. It’s a look that Murphy hates, a look that he’s regretfully – _despairingly_ – seen more than once. A look that, if Murphy could ever have any say in it, 10k would _never_ make again.

With a quick, curt nod down the road to where Garnett and Warren are marching towards them, the kid leaves with only a few barely audible words as his face closes off, falling blank once more as he springs up into the truck bed.

“He was like a bird.”

Just like that, it’s all over. No, it’s almost as if their conversation – Murphy’s attempts at a distraction – had never happened. His trusty, ever-present rifle back in hand, 10k is back to scanning the horizon. As if he’d never stopped.

They are all hushed as Garnett and Warren arrive, their muted mood more than obvious to their returning leaders. Which is why Murphy acts fast. The last thing he needs is for one of them to call it out, to put the kid under an unnecessary spotlight. Not when it’s best to allow him time to himself, with his thoughts and his past. As long as he knows that there are people he can turn to, anyway. Checking that 10k is still giving the skyline that customarily thorough inspection, Murphy moves over, intercepting Garnett before he reaches the truck.

Wanting the man alone, intending this to reach as few ears as it needs to, Murphy’s body language makes no secret of the fact that Warren isn’t wanted here, barely holding back from staring the woman down. Thankfully, Garnett is quick to pick up on this, nodding for her to carry on. Which she does, her ingrained military obedience still blissfully intact despite her very loud, yet entirely unspoken disapproval at being left out.

“What’s up, Murphy?”

Seems the Sergeant has no desire to waste time beating around the bush. Well, good. Neither does he. Keeping his voice low to avoid being overheard by their no doubt very nosy travelling companions, Murphy gets straight to the point. “Do me a favour – no, _us all_ a favour – and check out the kid’s damn rifle. And make it discreet. No need for our little Psycho Boy to know we’ve been talking about him. He’s paranoid enough as it is.”

Not caring to wait for a reply – because _of course_ Garnett will instinctively jump at the chance to play at being everyone’s favourite Good Samaritan – Murphy turns on his heel to make his way back to the truck where he gracelessly clambers up into the bed to take his place in his favourite corner. The one opposite to where 10k likes to stand as he searches for Zs to snipe. Not that the kid acknowledges his inelegant arrival, eyes never leaving his damn scope.

Garnett notices how strange that is, too, judging by the way he looks between Murphy and the kid, all confused eyes and pursed lips. Not wanting to waste any more time than they already have, especially with the storm getting closer by the minute, Garnett raps his fingers along the edge of the bed before speaking up. “You see anything, 10k?”

Pulling away from his beloved rifle, the kid glances down at him, his face an odd mixture of curiosity and confusion. But he doesn’t speak, choosing to simply shake his head instead.

The soldier scratches at his beard, likely considering his next move. “Remember what we spoke about at the farmhouse, kid? What I told you?”

Now it’s 10k’s turn to pause, to think, to figure out his next move in a game he’s not even sure Garnett is playing. With a long glance at the rifle in his hands, the kid appears to come to a decision. Stepping towards the edge of the bed, leaning forwards enough to make Murphy’s hands itch to reach out to ensure he doesn’t fall, he lifts his arms to offer his gun to Garnett. “Is my scope okay?”

Garnett takes the weapon with no hesitation and a friendly smile, fiddling around with the damn thing before lifting it up and staring off along the horizon in a manner so similar to that of Ten himself. And it doesn’t suit him. It’s funny, really. Garnett is the actual soldier, but the rifle just looks so… _wrong_ in his hands. The man is tall and broad, his edges rough and frayed, not to mention he’s able to cut a rather intimidating figure when he wants to. But when it comes to holding a rifle – no, _that_ rifle – Garnett just seems too… soft.

Face openly impressed, the Sergeant passes the kid back his weapon. “Looks fine to me. Really well taken care of.”

Simply nodding, 10k utters a short thanks before sliding down to take a seat in the corner of the bed. The one he usually stands in. The one opposite of Murphy.

And as the engine fires up, as they drive their way further into the small, insignificant town that Warren once called her home, Murphy doesn’t miss it. That little frown, tugging gently – though persistently – at the corners of his mouth as he glances at the rifle cradled in his lap.

Murphy has been watching the kid since they had set off for Warren’s home. He’d seen every time 10k had fidgeted, how he had never stopped his hopeful eyes from searching the street as if desperate to find a distraction. A kill. So, as soon as they finally arrive at their destination – a quaint, two-storey build, all red brick and immaculate lawn – it is no surprise to the man whatsoever when 10k effortlessly hurdles over the edge of the bed. Bouncing on his feet, dispersing some of his pent-up energy, the kid scans the area as he waits for the others to join him on the road.

With his trusty Cassandra now at his side, 10k nods towards the Z-Whacker grasped in Addy’s hands. “You take point.”

Mack scowls, because of course he does, as protective of the redhead as ever, but she simply ignores the blond, advancing towards the house with a smile, her boyfriend quickly falling in line behind her. He’s closely followed by Cassandra with 10k bringing up the rear, rifle poised and ready. Until the kid hesitates, throwing a quick look over his shoulder to confirm that, yes, Murphy is, in fact, still safely positioned near Garnett.

This pause doesn’t go unnoticed though, Addy spotting him, eliciting a fond smile from the young woman. “10k, come on!”

And with that, the two sweep teams jog up the garden path and onto the porch.

As Mack starts kicking at the front door – a good sign, really, as it still being locked could mean that the house has remained secure – Warren grimaces, marching her own way up the porch steps, the rest of them close behind her. Reaching up into the woodwork, the woman pulls down a hidden key, brandishing it at the blond who simply shrugs, moving to grant her access to her own front door.

With an apprehensive look, Garnett slides passed Murphy to close in on Warren. “If he’s in there and he’s…”

“I will not hesitate.”

Well, _that_ would have been handy to know. Seems Warren has more than pre-Z memories in Castle Point. Was that what they were searching that info board for? News on the woman’s family? About a husband that she had left behind? Maybe Murphy _should_ have wandered over with them, stopped Garnett from letting his heart make a promise that could endanger them all. So much for the man knowing the importance of Murphy and the Cure, of always putting his Mission above all else…

The door now open, Addy and Mack are inside in an instant, weapons raised as they creep up the stairs. Cassandra and 10k slink in after them, instead pushing forward through the ground floor. And Warren? The woman hesitates, looking around the hallway, her eyes softer – more _scared_ – than he’s ever seen of her. And Murphy can understand: he wouldn’t exactly be excited by the prospect of encountering his dead hubby, either.

Well, wife.

Not that he’s had either, nothing close to it.

And now he’s not likely to, once they reach California…

Murphy quietly follows Warren as she moves further into the house she had once called home. Into her living room. A sofa draped with a handmade blanket – knitted or crochet, he’s never been able to tell the difference – and a chair, both upholstered in a garish floral pattern. There’s a second chair, too, this one more his speed: a simple, classic beige, positioned with a perfect view of the TV.

Making her way slowly around the room, Warren lets her fingers trail along her numerous pre-Z possessions, the ones she’d left behind along with her husband. It’s odd, seeing her like this. The Warren that Murphy has known thus far is determined, hardy, taking no shit from anyone or anything, her mind sharply focused on both survival and their mission, leaving little room for sentimentality. So, to see her like this, so emotional, so vulnerable, so _human…_ Well, he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

She gives a gentle sigh, barely audible over the winds still howling outside, sliding a wooden box towards herself, slender fingers opening it up and–

“Ten!”

“No, wait! Please don’t shoot us!”

There is no time for hesitation, Garnett and Murphy streaking through the house, homing in on the women’s voices, bursting into a kitchen in a matter of heartbeats. There is a man sprawled out on the tiled floor, surrounded by a pool of his own blood, a mousey woman desperately trying to shield him. Because 10k is looming over them, his face hard and his rifle raised, ignoring Cassandra as she urgently tugs at his elbow, trying to pull him away.

The mousey woman turns towards the newcomers, her eyes wide with panic. “Please, stop him. Help us. My husband is hurt!”

Murphy can only watch from the doorway as Garnett slowly moves into the room, hands raised placatingly, steps cautiously precise, as if 10k is a wild animal, unpredictable and dangerous. Catching the kid’s eye, the soldier motions for him to stand down, to back off. Confusion builds in 10k’s eyes as he looks from Garnett to the injured man then back again. With half a mind to duck back into the living room, to dodge any oncoming fight, Murphy instead meets Cassandra’s unsure, pleading gaze. And stays put.

Finally reaching them, Garnett slides between 10k and his target, not once breaking eye contact.

And then, brows furrowed and jaw clenched, the kid lowers his weapon.

The tension in the room starts to break, relief rushing in to flood through the cracks. Cassandra tugs once more, pulling 10k away from his wounded prey.

“He needs help. Can you help him?” The mousey woman is no longer cowering, instead cradling her husband’s head in her hands.

Ushering 10k passed Murphy and back into the living room, Garnett waves Doc over, sending the old hippy into the kitchen with an order to assess the bloody man’s injuries. Deciding that he’d rather takes his chances with his aggressive little bodyguard than a man who is actively _dying_, Murphy saunters after 10k just in time to see Addy and Mack return. And, judging by the overtly suspicious look the blond throws the kid’s way while decisively stepping in front of his girlfriend, it is more than obvious the mousy woman’s screams were shrill enough to have been heard upstairs, loud and clear.

Not that Addy is having any of it, sidestepping Mack and glancing at the tight grip Cassandra still has on 10k’s arm before addressing Garnett, giving the Sergeant her report. “Uh, upstairs is all good.”

“Right.” With a nod, Garnett tries to wrest the situation back under his control, running a hand through his hair before turning to Cassandra. “Take 10k and sweep around back, make sure all entrances are secure.”

10k’s face is tight as he casts a brief glance around the room before stalking out, a very concerned Cassandra close behind him.

“So… What did we miss?”

Garnett gestures vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. “There’s a couple taking shelter here, one of them injured. His wife thought 10k was going to kill him.”

“But he wasn’t, right? Ten wouldn’t do that.”

Mack scoffs at the redhead. “You honestly believe that? You have no idea what that kid’s thinking, or what he’s really like. _None_ of us do. You can’t say what he would have done if someone wasn’t there to stop him.”

“His damn _job_!” Murphy cannot _believe_ he’s hearing this. Yes, okay, sure: 10k has had his worrying moments, saying or doing little things here and there that really haven’t worked out in his favour, but he’s saved these people enough times that Murphy hasn’t even bothered to keep track. And now they’re thinking of turning on him? For a rash, heat of the moment decision none of them _actually_ knew he’d follow through with? No. Murphy’s not having it. “He’s here to protect _me_, remember? Your only chance at a cure. Garnett, you saw how much blood that guy’s lost. Can’t blame the kid for wanting to be _proactive_ in his job.”

The Sergeant doesn’t answer right away, the turning cogs plainly visible behind his eyes. Even Warren has stopped her defeatist wallowing, closing the wooden box to instead await the man’s judgement.

With a laboured sigh, Garnett looks away, refusing to hold Murphy’s eye. “It’s not his choice to make. He should have alerted us first. Doc still might be able to help.”

“He’s not even a real doctor! And with this storm coming in, we’re all gonna be trapped here together. I am _not_ gonna be stuck in this shitty place with a man who is about to turn!” Plonking down onto the beige chair, Murphy swings his feet to rest on the table. “Fucking ‘home sweet _zombie_’.”

“Get out of that chair!” Warren stalks towards him, her face the very definition of wrath. “Go on and get out of there. Out of _here_!” Gripping the collar of his jacket, she yanks Murphy to his feet, shoving him harshly away. “That’s my husband’s favourite chair!”

“Alright!” Managing by some miracle to keep his balance as he’s flung towards the window, Murphy turns, stumbling instead towards the hallway. “Fine. I’m leaving.”

“Murphy, wait.”

“Oh, don’t start pretending to care about me now.” He doesn’t turn to face Garnett, simply waving his hand in the vague direction of the window. The one towards which Warren had hurled him; the one through which he had seen 10k and Cassandra. “Anyway, I’ll feel much safer _out there_ with him than I would staying in here…” Not passing up an opportunity to first throw a few disdainful looks around the room, gracing only Addy with a short smile, Murphy saunters to the front door and gently tugs it open.

If the scene inside of Warren’s home had been bitter, then the one he now intruded upon is downright sweet. 10k and Cassandra are facing each other, leaning against the porch fence. The kid may have his back to him, but Murphy can still tell. Tell from the fondness in the young woman’s eyes as she places her hand over the kid’s, squeezing it gently as he grips the top of the wooden fence.

With a quick glance at Murphy, Cassandra leans in towards 10k, her voice soft as her face. “Then explain it to them, Ten. Help them understand. I’ll have your back, and I’m sure Murphy will, too.”

Pulling away from him, she makes her way slowly down the porch, gliding passed Murphy without a word. Not that they need any. Ten’s uncertainty is more than obvious, his anxiety trickling through, as striking as the blue of his scarf or the grey of his eyes. So, no. They don’t need words. Because this is a baton that he’s glad she has passed, a burden he is more than willing to bare.

Taking his place at Ten’s side, he rummages through his pockets, pulling out a cigarette. His last cigarette. _No time like the present…_ He clicks his lighter, only for the flame to be immediately extinguished by the building winds.

He tries again, the flame licking to life for but a brief moment before dying once more.

Click. Click. Each attempt as futile as the last.

Click. Click. But he won’t give up.

Click. Click. Refuses to.

Click. Click.

_Click_.

Hands encircle his own, bracing against the wind, letting the spark burst into life, a magnificent flame dancing between their fingers. And a cigarette lights up. Not Murphy’s, rather one clasped in a small, crooked grin.

Pocketing his lighter, Murphy rolls his unlit cigarette between his fingers. “I’ll keep hold of this one, then. Save it for later.”

Turning to look up at the sky, 10k exhales, the smoke snatched away in an instant. “After the tornado.”

It’s peaceful, standing here in such an easy silence, passing their common vice back and forth. If he could have his way, Murphy would leave this moment intact, let this tranquillity remain until the last possible second. Until they were ordered back inside. Back into shelter. Into hiding.

But this isn’t why he’s out here. Isn’t why Cassandra left 10k in his care.

So, he speaks.

“How about we play a game? I ask a question, then you ask one. We keep going until one of us doesn’t want to answer or Garnett drags us inside.” At Murphy’s words, 10k just stares at him, puzzled and slightly suspicious. “Humour me, will ya?”

With a shrug, the kid passes him the cigarette, brows raised, waiting.

_Let’s start off with something light, shall we?_

“You’ve never watched TV – or seen _porn_ – so my question is this: what the hell did you do to pass the time? Not to be rude, but you don’t exactly strike me as much of a bookworm.”

“Hunting and fishing. Dressing down game takes a while if you’re using everything.”

“So… killing things? Shoulda guessed, you little sadist.” Murphy grins, leaning in close to tug at the black scarf trailing down Ten’s left side. _He probably doesn’t even realise!_ “Maybe it’s best you never had access to porn, after all. I’d place good money on your tastes being on the wrong side of fucked up.”

“You’ve seen porn.” 10k’s hand reaches upwards, sliding over the man’s shoulder, smoothing down the collar left in ruffles by Warren’s outburst before coming to a rest, fingers tickling to the back of his neck. “What do you like to see? What are you into?”

Oh, Ten went there, alright. Went straight for the kill, not holding anything back. Not that Murphy is blameless in this, though: he _had_ just brought up the topic. Twice. In any case, there is no way that he’s gonna let 10k throw him off balance with such an obvious power play. If his Princess is gonna push, then Murphy will just shove right back.

“Easy. Blowjobs. There’s just something about seeing a woman down on her knees, your _rifle_ in her mouth, all submissive. And she when pulls off, gasping for breath? Ain’t nothing better.”

“Not submissive.” The young man steps closer, moving further into Murphy’s space, crowding him. “When sucking, you’re in control. They have no choice but to trust you.” He smirks, now, mouth parting, showing off a hint of teeth. “You could _bite_.”

“Speaking from personal experience, are we?”

10k’s eyes have grown darker, deeper, _heavier_. Letting his hand slide down Murphy’s arm, his fingers graze along those of the taller man, teasing back possession of their cigarette. And as 10k licks his lips, now pursed and glistening, ready to take a drag…

Murphy takes a step backwards.

It’s an act of pure instinct, the young man’s physical immediacy too strong – too _compelling_ – for him to allow himself to remain within its influence. Not when he’s so acutely aware of just how visible they are, that traitorous window searing at his back.

Luckily, 10k doesn’t see offended by this action. Rather, he looks downright _smug_.

Idiot. Murphy is _such_ an idiot. Why did he think that he could win this one? Sure, 10k can be rather… private about such matters around the others, but at least he knows who he is. And he’s _comfortable_ with it.

But Murphy? He’s not quite so sure of himself anymore. And not just in these baffling ways concerning the young man before him. There is the matter of his bites: how he hadn’t turned like the other inmates; how he had survived being torn apart; how the skin around his wounds has now become tight and discoloured… That tingling, too. The one that creeps along the back of his neck, making the skin itch and the hairs prickle. The one that begs him to scratch away at his skin to access the nerves underneath. The one that he gets when he’s near enraged Zs.

Or 10k…

So, with his mind and their privacy both uncertain, he needs to pull back. Physically, _and_ with this little game. To stop with the teasing and the goading. To get right to the heart of the matter.

“Yeah, yeah. Reign your ego back in, Princess. You’re good, but you’re not _that_ good. Now, my turn. What happened in the kitchen?”

The smug look slides from the kid’s face, replaced by something more guarded, something that Murphy couldn’t name. Too resigned to be annoyance; too searching to be aloofness. But, just like last time, Ten hasn’t completely shut him out.

“He’s in pain. Would be wrong leaving him to suffer.” 10k’s face twists, now showing something that Murphy _can_ recognise. A plea for the man to listen, to try to understand. “Mercy isn’t just for Zs. Not everyone can do it, but I know that I can. So, I will.”

_Mercy…_

10k sees killing that man as an act of compassion? A kindness? “You do realise that half of them in there think you wanted to shoot him for the hell of it?”

The kid’s head drops, his body slumping, the now extinguished cigarette long forgotten between his fingers.

“Is that what you were talking about with Cassandra? Because she’s right, you know. If you let them in, they’ll understand. They won’t _hate_ you.” Curling his fingers into 10k’s scarf, Murphy hums as he battles against the winds to once again tidy up the soft, blue silk. “Well, Mack might. But that wouldn’t be anything personal. Think that one hates anyone who makes Addy smile…”

The musical laughter; the enchanting smile: both are as natural as they are beautiful, two things that Murphy wishes he had elicited sooner. Hopes to elicit again. Scarf as neat as tornado weather would permit, he ruffles his hand instead through 10k’s dark hair, for once not caring about the dirt and grime. Because Ten leans into the touch, eyes half closed, face content.

_But that damn window…_

Arm dropping back to his side, Murphy gives an easy smile. “Come on, kid, it’s your turn. Ask me anything.”

Ten weighs up his options, a hand trying in vain to smooth down his messy hair. He studies the man, a twinge of apprehension worming its way into grey eyes. “Where do you go? When you’re scared, I mean. By the Zs. It’s like you’re… somewhere else…”

_Shit_.

How is Murphy meant to answer this one? How can he tell the young man before him that part of his mind is still stuck in that damn prison? Strapped to the table where he’s being eaten alive, begging and screaming and pleading for someone – anyone – to come save him. To for once have enough kindness, enough fucking compassion, to ease his suffering. To grant him _mercy_. Or that other times, it’s like his mind slips, like he’s starting to turn, or turned already, feels like _he_ is the damn zombie, like he’s rotting away, falling apart, in so much pain, pain from hunger, hunger he knows could never be satiated–

“It happens to me, too.”

A hand, rough and warm and _alive_, encircles his own. Squeezes. Rubs. Tugs him back. Back to Castle Point, to Warren’s porch, to the person standing before him.

“I don’t get scared, Murphy, but I get _angry_. Angry enough to forget where I am, to think that I’m back in the early days.” His eyes, his beautiful grey eyes, churning with fear and regret. With remorse. A hand slipping into a pocket, pulling out a knife, its handle worn and white. “Last time it happened, I nearly hurt you. If Warren wasn’t there… Murphy, I don’t want to hurt you or the others but–”

A slow creak, the door behind them opening.

Garnett and Cassandra.

10k pulls away, hand disappearing into his clothing, that damned knife hidden away once more. His face, still wavering, is steadier than it was a few moments before. Because it’s more closed off.

Unaware of what had been transpiring between his companions on the porch, Garnett gives them a quick once over, full leadership mode evidently engaged, ready to dispense his orders. “The kitchen is fully stocked with food and water, but we still need medicine and batteries. 10k, take Cassandra and perform a sweep of the surrounding area. Make sure to get back before the storm hits.”

Licking at his lips, the kid looks the Sergeant in the eye. “That man…”

“Doc’s doing what he can. We’ll be moving him down to the basement where we’ll all be taking shelter together.”

With a nod that’s little more than a twitch of his head, 10k turns to grab his rifle from where it’s leaning against the wall, pressing in close to Murphy as he does so. Close enough that the man wouldn’t miss the whispered words that accompany the weight dropping into his pocket.

And just like that, the kid is gone, striding his way out into the storm, Cassandra matching his brisk pace with ease.

Waved back inside, Murphy lingers by the staircase as the others scurry around him. While Doc and Garnett are busy hoisting the injured man up – the one that 10k cared enough about to be willing to grant him the easy death that had been maliciously denied to Murphy – he slips his fingers into his pocket, pulling out a small, black switchblade.

The one that Ten had snuck in there. Had gifted to him along with murmured words.

_“Just in case…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: In case anyone doesn't understand Murphy's joke as he's tugging 10k's black scarf, it's a reference to the old hankerchief code, in which black worn on the left marks the wearer as a sadist searching for a masochist. 
> 
> Ever had a few weeks where everything seems to be going wrong?  
First, there are endangered bats nesting in the roof, delaying repairs, leaving my building unable to hold heat over the winter.  
Then, a proffessor tears into my work in the least contructive way possible.
> 
> But the worst thing?  
I. Broke. A. Nail.  
Not just a little snippet from the tip, either. The whole thing! An entire 16mm!  
How am I meant to spook young relatives over Christmas if I only have NINE TALONS?!
> 
> Okay. I think I'm done being dramatic, now.  
Chapter count has increased once more.  
I'll try my best to have the next chapter ready for next weekend but life is really getting in the way atm.
> 
> As always, enjoy, and I'd love a comment letting me know what you think.
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy is alone.
> 
> 10k isn't.

Trees, stubborn and steadfast, exploding as the pressure becomes too much, finally breaking them. Their wood splinters, the shards a folly rain. Those younger, more easily coerced, uprooted from the only life they had ever known. Their bark a rash along the roads down which they are dragged, their branches grasping at every last straw.

Any life left out on the streets – even that which has already seen its own death – cowers as the storm continues to build. Few shelters are accessible, fewer still liable to survive. Windows rattle; walls shake; doors bite at any foolish enough to approach.

The Apocalypse can seem too quiet: birds no longer singing, engines no longer whining, each indifferent dawn met no more by a tired and triumphant chorus.

The Apocalypse can seem too loud: screams from those desperately clinging to life, rasps from those itching to tear it away, all punctuated by ringing shots called Mercy.

The Storm is both.

Too quiet.

Too loud.

The shrieking of the wind drowns out the shrieking of a mousy wife, their strident cries ceaseless, incessant to the point of melding – of _blending_ – before fading to nought but a white noise, leaving the still air of the bathroom feeling… Empty.

And Murphy notices nothing.

Hears nothing.

Feels nothing.

_Is_ nothing.

Sure, he has a body, a pitifully corporeal form. One that can ache, can bleed, can suffer, just like any other. One that bruises when thrown to ground, discarded. One that bemoans the times when rations once more grow scarce. One that burns at the delicate brush of Ten’s fingers…

So, yes: Murphy _has_ a body.

But it’s empty inside. Nothing remains of who he used to be.

Hands run through dark hair, no longer shiny and slicked, instead falling away in clumps.

Lips peel back, their smile once charming and disarming, revealing teeth all browned and rotten.

Fingers poke and prod at skin, previously a clear point of pride, now cracked and caked and flaked.

This face. The one staring back at him from the mirror. It’s not his. This man he sees is _not_ Murphy. It’s someone else. Some_thing_ else. Is it even human?

_Am I human?_

The mud. The grime. The dying skin. It’s distorting the face. Blocking his view. Colouring his perception. And it can be removed. Washed off. Scratched away. All to reveal Murphy’s real face still waiting beneath.

He wrenches 10k’s bottle from where he stashed it away, pulling up the cap harshly, nearly yanking it clean off. Leather jacket slipping to the floor, Murphy drenches a woollen sweater sleeve then sets about his task, rubbing and scrubbing and scraping. Away goes the dirt and grime, the cracked skin following soon after, top layers peeling off like sunburn.

And it’s not enough. He soaks his other sleeve and starts on his neck. His neck. His goddamn _itching_ neck!

**easy**

His sweater. His shirt. They’re in the way. He needs them off. They have to _come off!_

Yanking them over his head – the fabric scratching at his neck, only making the itch flare up more – and flinging them to the ground.

**be easy**

And he stares. It’s all he can do. Stare at the body reflected in the mirror. Stare at its chest. At its skin. Its scars.

Stare. And stare. And stare and stare and stare and _tug_. A hand sliding up his neck, into his hair. Tugging and gripping and yanking and tearing. Hard enough for his skin shift, to bulge, to pull away from those stupid _fucking_ nerves that burn and–

**Be easy on yourself.**

Murphy gasps, cold air flooding into his lungs. Warmth out. Cold in again. Breathing, slow and steady and deep. A twitch in his side, a cool tingle seeping out, spreading up his spine before pooling at the base of skull.

And with it comes a calm, a peace, stronger than any he has ever experienced before.

His hands fall from his hair, landing instead on the sink, tracing the porcelain as his eyes idly glide over the scars, the ones sullying the abdomen, a perpetual reminder of blighted humanity.

_His_ scars. _His _humanity.

Murphy’s eyes trail further over the form reflected in the mirror. Just a moment ago he had so desperately wanted this to be someone else. To be anyone or anything but himself.

But it’s not someone else, is it?

A lot has happened over the last few years, both to the world and to him.

What he sees is real.

Whatever this being that is staring back at him may be, the only thing that he knows is that it _is_ him. It’s Murphy. And nothing he can say or do will change that.

The only thing that he _can_ do? Accept it, then move on.

But that doesn’t mean the others have to know…

_That junky fuck of a soldier was right. I _do_ look like a damn Z._

So, what can he change? What is under his control?

The dry and discoloured skin on his face is no longer a problem. His teeth would only be noticeable if he draws attention to them. And the scars? Well, it’s not like Murphy is in the habit of being topless in front of members of his escort, even cute, little 10k.

The hair, though? And the beard? That’s a different story altogether.

Sliding a hand into a trouser pocket, he teases out the switchblade. The one that the kid had deftly slipped in, unnoticed by Cassandra and Garnett. 10k is good with his hands, Murphy will give him that.

He scratches at his beard, tugs at his hair. Gently, this time. Because he’s in control of himself. Like he needs to be in control of the others in his band of survivors. Control how they see him, at least. Control their perception of him. And that is a skill he’s honed well enough that a few years in the clink followed by being dragged around an Apocalypse would hardly leave him rusty.

The hair is all patchy and falling out, causing him to look like he’s rotting, coming apart at the seams. But it’s simple enough to fix. To control. A quick swipe of the kid’s knife and it would be gone, a blank slate from which to begin anew. To grow. Sure, the bald look never suited him much, but it’ll only be temporary. More importantly, it’ll be Murphy’s own choice. And anyway, he’s a confidence man: believing in himself until others started to believe too is how he put food on his mother’s table, and later his own.

He needs Garnett and Warren to believe that he still belongs with them, that their mission isn’t about to end with failure so soon after it started. Needs them to believe that he’s still mostly human. And that they should protect him.

This will be his greatest role, his finest con. He’s not Murphy the Bite Victim, a helpless man being rushed across America by a band of brave survivors who desperately want to get him to a lab before he finally turns. No, he’s much more than that. He died in a prison for his own sins and yet, here he is, still walking the Earth. And unlike those pitiful Zs, he still has his own mind, his own beating heart. A soul immortal.

So, no. He’s not a victim. In fact, he’s far from it. For he is a Messiah.

Murphy smirks, a deep rumble of a laugh bubbling up from his chest. Maybe ‘Messiah’ is a bit too much, aiming slightly too high, even for him. But he _is_ the carrier of a potential cure, a possible Saviour of Humanity. If he himself can exude that belief then other people will soon follow, that he knows. Everyone has a weakness, a scam or a ploy they will fall for again and again. And he’s always been good at finding them. Alongside that weakness, all he needs is a little confidence.

He won’t take it too far this time, though, doing just enough to ensure his own survival. His last con had gotten out of hand and landed him in the slammer; if this one does, he’ll end up in the ground.

Eyeing the knife in his hand, Murphy presses a switch, the blade springing out with a gentle, metallic sigh. Running his thumb along the edge, Murphy’s smirk widens as his tender caress leaves steel wearing red. The blade is razor sharp, refined to a deadly and precise perfection. But then, everything about his Princess is.

It’s been a long time since his mother passed, so it’s been just as long since he’s worked a scheme for anyone’s benefit than his own. Murphy is more than sure that Ten will be worth the effort. Killing his own father really fucked that kid up, never mind whatever happened with that scarf. And everything that then came after? Icing on top of the trauma cake. With how much 10k likes him, how attached to Murphy he’s become, if the man turns…

Murphy lifts his chin, twisting it to the side. Not far enough to break his gaze from the mirror, rather just enough to expose his throat.

This damn Apocalypse has messed the kid up enough – Murphy will not be responsible for causing him any more pain. If Ten is insistent on protecting him, then that is a sentiment he’ll have no qualms about returning. Fuck, he might even be willing to get his own hands dirty for a change.

The last of the man’s doubts have fallen away, that old and familiar confidence flooding in to fill the void. He moves the knife, levels the edge over his carotid, careful not to slice the skin. Now isn’t the time for mistakes or hesitation or even guilt. This time, his con isn’t wrong. Because it’s an act of benevolence, one born from a desire to protect.

Ten _will_ be protected from Murphy’s own fate.

And that starts with making everyone believe he’s still human.

~*~*~

Cassandra sighs, sinking down into the bed behind him, her words drifting passed his ears with little consequence. Something about clothes? 10k doesn’t know. Isn’t listening. Or even looking at her.

No… He’s too busy staring at the mirror…

It’s full length, an antique brass monstrosity, and he’s framed right at its heart. Muddy boots, bloody stains, rifle by his side. What was it that Murphy had told him? That the others think he likes killing people? Well, no wonder they think so little of him. With what 10k sees in this mirror… The image of Ten Thousand that he cannot tear his eyes away from, no matter how hard he tries… Frack, he looks just like so many of those monsters he’s culled. The ones that don’t even care enough to fake a smile for their poorly chosen prey.

Why is he still staring? He’s never cared about his appearance before. This isn’t… This isn’t like him…

But…

The kid slides from the bed, blunt nails raking down his prickling neck, his footsteps silent as he creeps towards the glass. So that he can see his face. Why his face? He never looks at his face. Doesn’t need to; doesn’t shave yet. He doesn’t know why he’s looking, only that he should – that he _must_ – as he’s shepherded towards the mirror by an irresistible instinct. Close enough to see himself clearly. To really _look_. At himself. At Ten Thousand. And at them. The little flecks of blood, mostly Z black but some a rusty brown, an aged crimson. They frame his face, freckles of violence dancing back into his hair. Back to where his scalp is stained a deep red, tarnished by almost as much blood as his hands. Hands that–

**Am I human?**

“Ten?”

…What? Why would he think that?

Of course, he’s human.

He _has to be_ human.

Because, if he’s not, if he’s as bad as those monsters that he methodically hunts down, if he’s thrown away his own humanity as they have then– Then… there isn’t any point to him surviving, right…?

_No!_

He’s come too far. Lasted too long. And he’s not like _that_. He’s not like _them_!

His name is _Ten Thousand_, he is _human_, and he _doesn’t wear red_!

“Ten, listen to me.”

Low growl tearing from his throat, Ten Thousand rips the black scarf from around his waist. Rummaging through his pack, he yanks out a canteen – one made from brushed steel, one he doesn’t recognise – twisting off the top and dumping some precious water onto the scarf in hand.

“Ten, _please_!”

Ten Thousand lifts his hands towards his face, ready to scrub away at that which shouldn’t be, but the wet fabric doesn’t make it, its hasty progress halted by a small tug. By the gentle pressure of slender fingers circling around his wrist. By a person he hasn’t seen before…

No, he has.

It’s Cassandra.

She’s Cassandra.

And 10k trusts her.

_He _trusts her.

Trusts her.

“That’s it, Ten. Calm down. Come back to me.”

His other hand lifts, slides through his grimy hair, coming to a rest at that spot. That comforting little spot. The one at the base of his skull, a rough patch of skin where the hairs have never grown. The place he’d rub – that_ Tommy_ would rub, even as a child – whenever it got to be too much. The itching and the tingling and the prickling.

“You’re safe, Ten. You’re here with me, and you’re safe.”

He leans forward, pressing his weight into Cassandra as she guides them gently down to the floor.

“It’ll pass. Just breathe through it and it’ll pass.”

His face now tucked into her shoulder, 10k lets his hand drop from his hair, instead snaking it around his waist to prod a finger harshly into his side. It digs through the thinning fabric of his grubby clothes, finding its mark low on his ribs.

“Don’t worry about it, Ten. Just relax and be easy on yourself. Be easy on yourself.”

Her breath tickles as her words repeat, a comforting mantra he himself soon adopts.

_Be easy on yourself._

His finger jabs in hard, the sharp jolt of pain helping to ground him.

_Be easy on yourself_.

As he breathes deep and slow, the pain fades to a soft ache, the sensation familiar and cool as it sinks in deeper.

_Be easy on yourself._

And then it spreads. It mercifully spreads, travelling up and out and into his mind, bringing with it that longed-for peace. That clarifying serenity. A quick fix, so similar to the one that he feels after a successful hunt. Post-coital; post-kill: either way, Ten Thousand never remains satiated for long…

Taking one last deep breath, savouring the sweetness of Cassandra’s hair that he knows his own doesn’t share, 10k tilts away from her, throwing the worried woman a grateful smile. He slips from her grasp, pulling her along with him as he returns to the bed. Shoving some clothes to the side to make space for them, he tugs her down, their fingers entwined as the springs protest their weight.

That… came from nowhere… Usually his episodes, as Cassandra calls them, come from a place anger or when he’s fighting and desperate… It was unlike anything that the kid had experienced before, both pre- and post-Apocalypse. _If Cassandra wasn’t here with me…_ Well, there’s no telling what might have happened…

But, it’s over. It’s gone. 10k’s back to the here and now. And no one got hurt.

The kid keeps his breathing even, regular, as he takes in the room around them. Still the same grey-stained hardwood floor, their boot prints tracked in from the hallway. The same bed, clad in dusty white sheets and draped with a soft, charcoal coloured blanket, its frame made from the same antique brass as that… That mirror. It’s the same room as before, all washed out and monotonous, only now Cassandra has brought to it an explosion of colour. A burst of life.

“I found all these clothes while you were, erm… zoned out. They’re mostly clean if you think any might fit you.” Cassandra’s hand slides out of his as she flitters around the bed to inspect the colourful mound now gracing its centre. There’s an odd assortment of garments in a plethora of fabrics and an even greater rainbow of colours and patterns.

10k is thankful for this – for the distraction – joining his friend in her rummaging. It’s part of the reason he finds her company so comforting, so… reassuring. He feels secure in the knowledge that she’ll wait for some semblance of normalcy to return between them before she starts to ask her questions. She knows when to back off, too. Knows when she’s about to take things too far. Never blames him for his anger, either… Not that she’s ever seen him truly angry, only the occasional spark or growl before he manages to wrestle himself back under control.

His anger… That’s something that no one should ever have to witness. Something that shouldn’t even be…

So, yes, he’s grateful for her understanding, for her little distractions as she discreetly backtracks from a tender subject.

Rolling up his sleeves, he eagerly digs into the pile, beginning his own emphatic excavation because, who knows, maybe he’ll find some pretty socks. He’s found no adequate replacement for so long that his current pair are now more patches and repairs than actual sock!

Cassandra’s eyes flicker to him, drifting along his exposed forearms for only a moment before dropping back to the leggings in hand. She’s the only one who has seen them, his scars. Only badgered him about them once, too, stopping as soon as he’d assured her that they weren’t self-inflicted.

Well, she’d also harried him about letting her treat his most recent wound, the one he’d gotten a few days or so before Doc had picked him up. Had stung like frack, that one, but the Oreos had been worth it. Even if Murphy had stolen the last one in the pack… 10k had ran out of fishing line so that particular slash had been slathered in honey then haphazardly held closed with duct tape. Cassandra had called him an idiot for not letting anyone, especially Doc, know about the injury, but she’d kept it secret without him having to ask it of her…

Then, a few days later, she’d cornered him with a sewing kit she’d somehow acquired. Threaded up the kid’s needle – the one he’d specially sharpened to pierce his flesh with more ease – with nylon, then browbeaten him until he guided her through the simple lock-stitch suture that Pa had taught him all those years ago.

It’s not that he actively hides them. The scars, that is. The ones on his arms or even the rest of his body. He just… doesn’t like the questions. The looks of pity. The way people always assume he’s _ashamed_ of them. Keeping a distance from people means keeping their prying to a minimum so he stays fully clothed in front of others at all costs.

Unless it’s a handsome man on his radar…

Suppose it’ll happen eventually, though. The others seeing him. He’ll have to court their questions one day – have to actually _answer_ them – if he wants to make it all the way to California at their side.

And at Murphy’s.

To his dismay, the brightest item in the clothes pile is not socks but rather a pair of shorts, sunshine yellow with gold buttons fastening the waist. Not 10k’s size or style but–

The kid grins, balling them up and flinging them over the bed towards Cassandra where they bounce off her chest with a soft _paff_. “Think these’ll fit you. Any good?”

She shakes the fabric straight, her look of playful annoyance melting off in pure disgust before she drops the offending garment to the floor like a bad habit. “No. Oh god, no!”

Having kicked them underneath the bed with a booted foot, Cassandra turns back to him, her face soft but eyes… sad. A look 10k’s seen on her many time before, one she usually wears during their late-night talks…

“I used to love shorts so much. Wore them every chance I got before all this. Before Tobias…” She eyes him gratefully as he inches across the bed, leaning closer to her. Close enough to give her hand a gentle squeeze that he hopes she will find comforting. “After some of the outfits he made me wear… I swore I’d never bare my legs again. It just feels so… so _sleazy_, you know?” She pats his hand, her eyes almost back to their former brightness. “That bastard completely ruined shorts for me. Now, you wouldn’t catch me dead in them!”

There’s still so much he doesn’t know about her. About her past. About her traumas. But she doesn’t know all of his either. And she probably never will. No one will. Some things are just too personal – to _raw_ – to utter out loud. It’s good to have someone to talk with, though. To have someone that won’t judge, who instead will simply listen, be supportive, but never fearful. Or hateful.

This deal they have – the one where they share their pain – it’s a two-way street. A story for a story. If Cassandra opens up to him, then she expects him to do the same to her in return. As long as he’s comfortable, that is. He knows she’ll never force the issue unless it concerns something serious. Something that may endanger them or the others.

At least this time he knows what she’s most curious about.

With a light sigh, 10k sends Cassandra a quick nod, letting her know that he’s ready now. That she can finally ask away.

“What was that about before, Ten? Why did you ask if you are human?”

_Oh._

10k hadn’t realised that he’d said that out loud, thinking it to be a stray thought, one that had intruded upon him from somewhere deep down. It’s not the kind of thought he’s ever had before, so why would it have appeared so suddenly? Been felt so strongly?

“Dunno. Was just there, in my head. Didn’t know I said it…”

“Is it something that’s been worrying you?”

“No.”

“Then what is? There must be something bothering you, Ten. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

Could… Could that be it? Could his worries – his insecurities – have been the cause?

“Do I… Cassandra, do I belong here? With these people? With you?”

“Oh, Ten. Why would you even think that? Of course you do!”

He doesn’t look at her. _Cannot_ look at her. Not a she glides over to him, the mattress sinking slightly as she crowds in close. Not as she takes his hand into her own, her soft fingers tracing his callouses. And especially not as she tenderly hooks a finger over his chin. Tilting his head to encourage him to meet her gaze.

“I want you here, you know that, right? And Doc? He absolutely adores you! I’ve never seen anyone smile as bright as he does when he looks at you. Then what about Murphy, huh? That man is one of the most self-centred assholes I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting, and even _he_ has a major soft spot for you.”

A gentle squeeze of his hand and the kid finally finds it. Courage. Not much, but enough. Just enough.

He meets her eye.

“You _are_ wanted, 10k, so don’t you dare ever think otherwise.”

He swallows, his throat thick. “It’s just… don’t always _feel_ like I belong… Do I _look_ like I do?”

Cassandra pulls back, a playful frown gracing her lips. “Well, now that you mention it, you _do_ look at little odd. Your wastelander style _does_ clash with Garnett and Warren’s survivor chic, after all. But that’s an easy enough fix.”

10k cannot help the little smirk that tugs at his mouth, the tension melting from his bones as he watches his friend start digging once more through the mound of clothing. “It’s practical. Rather leave an old corpse than a pretty one.”

With a snort, Cassandra turns back to him, her eyes trailing down his body before lifting back to his face with a raised brow. “What makes you think you can’t do both?”

Smirk widening to a full-on grin, 10k taps his fingers along the boot sole adhered to his shoulder. “Murphy says the biggest victim of the Apocalypse is fashion sense. Not sure I ever had any.”

Her giggle is light, and it’s warmed the kid’s soul every time he’s been lucky enough to hear it. “As handsome as you may think that man may be, I wouldn’t let him pick any outfits for you, Ten. Next thing we know, it’ll be _you_ swearing off shorts for life!” Sparing his shoulder pads a cursory glance, Cassandra tugs her knife out of its sheath, dropping it on the sheets between them. “First things first: take those awful things off. The elbow pads, too.”

The kid hesitates. His armour. He cannot lose his armour. It’s saved his hide more than once over the last few years. Wandering alone, no one to back him up, Ten Thousand’s defensive attire has been the only thing stopping him from becoming lunch, especially in the early days…

But… if he’s travelling with a group – one he supposedly belongs to – then he should trust them at his back, right? And as handy as his armour has proven itself, it has its downsides. Drawing attention and the questions that can come with it is the obvious one, but it also impacts him on a more personal note, too. With how slow and cumbersome it is to take it all off then put it all back on again, it makes bathing properly a real pain. One he often chose not to deal with, instead favouring a quick wipe down with a wet rag.

Unless there is a man that he has his eye on, that is. Then, he always take the extra effort with his hygiene. It’s only polite, after all.

Speaking of which, 10k supposes that he best start being more thorough with his bathing again, maybe keep an eye out for a nice river or lake, now that he has those haughty blue eyes and that handsome, bearded face waiting for him back at Warren’s house…

Mind made up, the kid snatches Cassandra’s knife from the bed, making quick work of cutting through all the fastenings and prying off his armour, tossing the pieces to rest over by his discarded black scarf.

“Ooh, much better already!” Cassandra’s amused cooing pulls him around to face her. “Maybe that t-shirt could go, too, though. The camo may hide _you_, but it certainly doesn’t hide bloodstains.” With a grin, she holds up what she deems a suitable replacement. A simple t-shirt, dark red in colour. “How about this? Should hide them for a while.”

“No. Don’t wear red.”

At her curious gaze, 10k simply shakes his head, fingering the edges of blue silk. That isn’t a story she can have. No one can have it. It belongs to Tommy and Tommy alone.

Delving once more into the clothing, he instead tugs loose a soft and silky white shirt, dark buttons fastening up the front. Along the shoulder and across the chest are fine green and cream threads, delicately embroidered to form thistles. “What about this one?”

When Cassandra looks over, 10k doesn’t miss it. There’s no way he could. She freezes, her dark eyes widening slightly in shock. It’s only there for a split second before she manages to push it down, her face lifting to her practiced, friendly-but-curious look soon after. “Why that one, Ten?”

He frowns down at the shirt in hand, his confusion easily readable if the way Cassandra shifts uncomfortably is anything to go by. What’s wrong with the shirt? It’s clean and roughly his size… “The flowers…? They look like _Cirsium Longistylum_.” As he speaks, the young woman seems to relax somewhat, allowing a more genuine curiosity to flicker across her face. “Can tell by the long, white styles. Only really grow in one area, you know? Used to like trying to spot them when I was young.”

“They grew where you lived?”

“Some of the places. Pa knew that area, knew the terrain, so we kept coming back to it. Never for more than a year at a time, though.”

She hums, eyeing the shirt. “So, you just like these flowers, Ten? That’s it?”

“Y-yeah…? Other flowers as well. Can be useful. Look and smell nice, too.”

With an easy-going, albeit relieved, smile, Cassandra gently tugs the shirt out of his hands and places it neatly on top of the pile. “This one _is_ nice, but I think it might raise a few more eyebrows than those stain. Maybe it’s best for the camo to stay for now.”

With a shrug, the kid turns back towards the mirror. He doesn’t look too different, but he has to admit that Cassandra is right. Simply removing his armour, along with that black scarf he used to tie around his waist, has really changed the feel of his outfit. It’s a lot more… _normal_, something akin to what he’d see on some of the people in the towns he and Pa would stop by to pick up supplies, or even other survivors he’d watch milling about in their settlements from a distance. Well-worn boots, soft grey trousers and shirt, camo t-shirt on top, Jeff’s scarf draped across his heart as a finishing flourish. He’s looking less ‘Ten Thousand, the Lone Sharpshooter’ and more ‘10k, the Kid Protecting the Cure’.

It’s a good look. It’s normal. It looks like it belongs.

Heck, the only thing that doesn’t look pre-Z about him, excluding the occasional overzealous hunter, is all his weaponry. Not that _they_ are going anywhere – he’d rather chew off his own hand than give up his fracking rifle!

“There is… one more thing.”

10k watches her reflection in the mirror as Cassandra circles around the bed to join him in his gazing. Her eyes – they’re dancing with mischief. Something he has been quick to realise is not necessarily a good thing coming from his friend. “W-what…?”

“Your hair.”

“What about my hair…?”

“It’s awful.”

Frowning, the kid turns to the mirror again, to his reflection, moving in close to really inspect it. It’s not _that _bad, right? Sure, the cut is a little uneven, and it hasn’t been washed in… In… He’s not sure how long ago it was, now. It was when he’d met that guy, the cowboy with the filthy mouth. Where was that? Connecticut? New York? It was at least a month before he’d saved Doc back at that school…

_Has it really been that long? Frack, no wonder Murphy’s been so distracting…_

Leaning into his side, Cassandra joins him in assessing his hair. “It’s not too hard a fix. It’ll just take time, is all. Let it grow out for a bit, get enough length on it that a nice, even cut won’t take it down too short.” She smiles up a him, equal parts warm and wicked. “I’m not the best at cutting hair but I’m pretty sure I’m a hell of a lot better at it than you, Ten!”

And with that, she pulls back, snatching his pack from off the floor and holding it out, feigning impatience. “We really should be getting a move on, though. Garnett wants us back before the storm hits.”

Pack now securely in place, rifle safely in hand where it belongs, 10k waits, a knot anxiously twisting up his gut as Cassandra gives him – the _new_ him – a final appraisal.

With a smile and a nod, she turns on her heel, heading swiftly for the door. “You look much better already. Less ‘Mad Max’ and a lot more ‘Rambo’. I’m sure Warren will approve!”

Flicking aside the now discarded relics of Ten Thousand, 10k snatches up Murphy’s brushed steel canteen from the hardwood floor, screwing on the cap before shoving back into his pack, where it belongs. As he scurries towards the staircase after Cassandra, the kid’s curiosity finally gets the better of him. “What is this ‘Rambo’ thing, anyway?”

The laugh that drifts up from below is light and carefree.

“Ask Doc!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the loooong delay. I've been So. Hecking. Sick! Spent the best part of a month in bed, being dramatic to anyone unfortunate enough to be near me. Not back up to 100% even now, my voice still a distressingly deep baritone.
> 
> I'll try my best to keep more to the planned weekly schedule.
> 
> As always, hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Now, if you excuse me, I'm off to crawl back under my mound of blankets to pretend that the world doesn't for another day or two.
> 
> <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the kid finally decides who he wants to be.
> 
> Then, Cassandra talks about sex.
> 
> Finally, Murphy lets 10k sweeten him up a bit.

That Ten Thousand has killed is not in itself a surprise. It’s the Apocalypse: everyone still breathing likely has blood of one colour or another on their hands. Garnett. Warren. Addy. Even kindly old Doc.

But just because they _know_ that he has killed, doesn’t mean they understand the full scope of it.

‘_Ten Thousand_’. A name taken for his kill count. Inspired by his desire to be compassionate – be merciful – in the way that only a hunter knows how. To show other victims of this plague the same kindness and love that he was able to show Pa. A love he was unable to extend to Jeff. _One thousand, eight hundred and eighty-five_: that’s how many times he’s been able to help these victims, these once living people who have had their humanity forcibly stripped away from them. Their black blood does not stain him, washing away with the rain or swirling into a river, returning back to the very soil that their still animate remains had yearned for.

What stains him – tarnishing his very soul every time it coats his hands, thick and sticky and _warm_ – is the blood that still runs red.

He never kept a kill count for those who dared to believe that they were still human, the ones that cut a path through the Apocalypse, leaving behind more pain and misery than the very Zs that they claim superiority over. If the Zs are lowly animals suffering from disease, then those people – those _monsters_ – are lower still. _That’s_ why he never kept track of how many he has killed. They don’t mean enough to Ten Thousand for him to care.

But he never could forget their faces… The way it would flood with the realisation that they had chosen the wrong prey, that _they_ weren’t the apex predator they thought they were. That there was another link in the food chain, sitting neatly above their own. Then that realisation would turn to fear. Fear to agony. Agony to nothingness.

At first, Ten Thousand felt nothing, too. But soon… Soon he started seeking them out. Tracking them through the Apocalypse, following the trail of devastation that they left in their wake. And then, after yet another successful hunt, he felt it. Felt that nothingness become warped and distorted, twisting into a vile and depraved _satisfaction_.

It’s not satisfaction that he’s feeling right now, though. No, instead, in this very moment, he feels something else entirely: fear. The kind of fear that he’s only ever seen on those faces. It tightens his chest and speeds his heart, the relentless beating threatening to crack his ribs. The twisting in his stomach forces acid upwards, his mouth filling with a metallic tang.

All because it’s happened. The inevitable has _finally_ happened. He’s stumbled into the sights of a more efficient predator. The link above his own, looming over him with a ferocious indifference.

Ten Thousand cannot kill a storm.

“10k! Hang on!” Cassandra screams that name from the car seat next to his, her hand squeezing his arm like a vice as she pulls him back to the present. Her fingers press in further as she desperately urges him to find something, _anything_, with which to brace for impact.

‘_10k_’. That name is still new to him. Doesn’t quite feel like it _belongs_ to him. No name has, not since the Apocalypse started. When he was still Tommy, he was weak. He was scared and weak, which is why he failed to protect the ones he loved. On his own, he soon realised it – that Tommy would never be able to survive. That’s why he had killed the boy himself, let ‘_Tommy_’ die so that he could be reborn anew.

Reborn as Ten Thousand.

Ten Thousand was stronger, looking after only himself. He didn’t trust anyone, seeing others merely as a means to gather resources. He’s stolen more food, water, and ammunition then he’d ever be capable of scavenging solo, and was planning on stealing this group’s, as well – but Garnett had ensured that he was given an equal ration. He’s killed countless people, men and women both, those who considered his body as an object, a possession that could be bartered for, traded and used, like he’d thought he’d have to kill Doc – but the old guy has been nothing but caring, trying to take him under his wing and ease him into the group.

Ten Thousand was fully intending to harm these people, but they instead welcomed ‘_10k_’ with open arms.

The car shunts forwards, golden sparks flying as it twists, scrapping down the wall. Cassandra’s hand drops, her deathly grip landing on his thigh as she whimpers in fear.

All Ten Thousand has ever cared about is surviving. The scavenging and stealing, the killing and fucking; it was all to meet his own needs, basic and instinctual. He’d been so focused on doing enough to simply survive that he’d forgotten why he wanted to survive in the first place.

He doesn’t want to_ just_ survive.

No, the kid wants to _live_.

It shouldn’t be possible in a world like this, to do something beyond scavenging amongst the remnants of a civilisation he was never truly a part of, wandering through the wastes until it’s his time to finally die. But now he knows that it _is_ possible.

He’s seen it.

He’s found proof.

He’s found _Garnett._

This man, the one who has taken him in, given him a job, offered him a _name_. The Sergeant knows_ how_ to kill, but he also knows _when_. He protects those he holds dear, yet he doesn’t hide them away from the world, keeping them separated from any who could wish them harm. No, he protects them while encouraging them to live, to grow. Garnett is a leader unlike any Ten Thousand has ever crossed paths with before. Because he’s_ more _than just a leader. He’s a compassionate patriarch who inspires his family to pursue their own happiness.

He’s a _father_.

“Oh no, oh no!”

Cassandra’s voice hitches as the car lurches again. Her hand shifts, tightens, forcing the knife in his pocket to burrow in, to bite at his skin.

That knife. The white knife. _Ten Thousand’s_ knife. She shouldn’t touch it.

He yanks her fingers off and away, gripping her hand in his, clutching it hard enough for his knuckles to pale.

She shouldn’t touch that… that _thing_. No one should. The blood on it, the one that stains its steel – that stains his hands – cannot be allowed to taint anyone else, especially not Cassandra. For that blood is _his_ burden, and _his_ burden alone. The price of Ten Thousand’s survival.

…But should Ten Thousand survive? Does he_ deserve_ it?

He thought that Doc was like those monsters. Had planned on killing him. The old guy would have followed him away from the others, easy enough. He knows this. Because he tested it. Back on the first day, the day they had picked him up: Doc had followed him deep into the piles of junked cars under the guise of searching for gas. He’d let himself be separated from his group by someone he didn’t know he should fear, just like so many others.

Then Ten Thousand had realised that he was wrong. That Doc is a good person. Is still human.

How many other good people weren’t so lucky?

How much of the blood on Ten Thousand’s hands is innocent?

The winds pick up; the car begins to bounce. He tugs at Cassandra, pulling her in close. She grips desperately onto his shirt – his dirty, blood stained shirt – fingers digging into his ribs, her head tucked into his chest. Her hair tickles his chin, smelling so sweet.

Smelling like flowers.

Flowers gently waving along a riverbank on a lazy summer’s day. A day when he was safe. A day when he was happy. A day when he was loved.

And he wants to go back. He wants to be Tommy again, dozing in the tall grass, listening to the sounds of leaves whispering in the breeze; to a lilting voice, sweeter than that of any songbird.

_When there was a wilderness, we wandered wild and free_

Days fishing with Pa and nights learning to whittle wood, then antler and bone. The trips into town, the chores completed in a hurry, finding time for Jeff. The first time he’d met up with him in the woods, trekked to the river, taught him to fish. A gentle kiss pressed to a sliced finger; tenderness exchanged for a carving he’d finish but never give.

_Guilt, she is the Governess that guides me back to grieve_

He wants to go back! He’d do _anything_ to go back. But he can’t, can he? Can’t go back to the past, before the world ended. Can’t go back and be Tommy, be the person Jeff loved.

But…

But he can still keep his promise. Even after all these years, he can still keep it. He can try to build a better world, to protect those he cares for. And he can do it by becoming the person Jeff believed he’d one day be. The person Garnett believes he _is_.

He doesn’t want to be ‘_Ten Thousand_’ anymore, spending his days stalking a prey to which it never paid well to be merciful, striking it down without second thought.

No, he wants to be the person that his new group thinks he is. He wants to guard Garnett and his family, helping them in their mission to save humanity. And he knows exactly how. The perfect way to utilise his hard-earned skills: hunting down _their_ predators, killing any who would look upon such selfless people and wish them harm.

He can do it.

He can follow Garnett’s lead and _actually_ do it.

Just like Tommy had to die, so too does Ten Thousand. Then, he can protect them all and become the 10k that Garnett believes he already is.

10k will be able to protect Murphy.

But first, he needs to protect Cassandra.

He braces himself, one hand on the ceiling, one foot on the dashboard, his friend pulled tightly into his chest. As the car flips, the glass shatters, and her screams drown in blue silk.

~*~*~

It’s over.

The storm is finally over.

The skies are clear, the clouds back to their comforting grey. And the winds? They howl no longer, their quarry now abandoned, left alone to rest, to wait for the day that someone comes along, caring enough to pick up the pieces. To puzzle them back together again. Make them whole once more.

Cassandra breathes, deep and slow, the air sweet as it fills her lungs. And, if past experience has taught her anything, the next thing she eats and drinks will be the most wonderful meal she’s ever tasted. Those ones always taste the best – the meals you think you’ll never get to eat.

Because they taste like still being alive.

She stands there, just taking it all in, revelling in the bliss of another unlikely survival, as 10k stares at the car. Its roof had crumpled, its windows had shattered, but it had held firm. Protected them. Like Ten had tried to protect her.

No, not ‘_try_’. Because he succeeded. He _had_ protected her.

10k shifts, like he’s waking from a long slumber. Stooping low and slow, he reaches back inside the car with one outstretched hand clenched tightly into a fist, a glint of white contrasting sharply with the black of his glove.

It’s that knife. The white one. The one Ten had pulled on Murphy when the man had mocked him, shattering the poor kid’s already tenuous grip on his temper. Between what Addy had later told her and the things Ten had eventually confided in her with, Cassandra knows what had happened. Knew that 10k had lost control, had slipped back. Back to a previous moment in time, one when he had been derided in such a manner; back to when he had originally taken that knife in hand; back to when he had committed his first murder.

She doesn’t know why he still keeps that damn knife. Doesn’t know why he’d kept in the first place. Even as they shared their stories, helped bare each other’s pain, she had always known deep down that that was one of the few things she could never ask. Considering how compulsively Ten cleans his weapons and patches up his equipment, he cannot simply see it as just another tool, not with how battered, how uselessly blunt, the blade has been allowed to become. Yet she doubts it was taken in commemoration, either, a trophy to mark a successful hunt in lieu of antlers or a pelt. Because it isn’t displayed, isn’t revered, instead left to weigh heavy upon his soul; an albatross hung about his neck, choking him.

So, when he pulls back, hand empty, his burden left behind in the long-abandoned car that had sheltered them from the storm, Cassandra knows that the gentle blue above is not the only sky that has cleared.

Seeing her watching, 10k shuffles away from the door, bumping it shut with his hip as he tugs his scarf up closer to his face. “Doesn’t belong to me.”

Cassandra steps in towards him, Ten refusing to meet her eye as she tenderly pries away the blue silk that muffles his words. “Then who does it belong to?”

“Ten Thousand.”

“But… Aren’t _you_ Ten Thousand?”

“Don’t want to be. Not anymore.”

It had never surprised Cassandra that Ten had opened up to her so easily. Doc is kind and loving but, although the old guy would certainly try his best, he’d never truly understand. Murphy may have caught 10k’s eye from the start, but the man is too sure – too proud – of the person his is and the things that he’s done. Garnett, as a soldier, knows well the weight of tough decisions and ending lives, but he’s also their leader: one too many toes out of line or a single confidence too far and the kid fears he’ll be forced out.

But Cassandra? She can understand. She has done things she’s not proud of. And she would _never_ blame Ten for what he’s done. Would never ask him to apologise for wanting to live.

And right here, right now? She knows exactly how he’s feeling. Knows exactly what he’s going through. And knows exactly what he’s leaving behind.

After all, Sunshine had had her music box.

“If you don’t need him anymore, then it’s okay to let him go.” Dropping the silk, Cassandra instead pulls gloved hands into her own, clasping them tight. “You can let Ten Thousand go.”

“But… What would that make me? Who would I be?”

He meets her gaze, now, pale eyes clearer than she’s ever seen. Like he’s already made up his mind, that he finally knows who he really is, and is simply seeking the approval of a friend.

“You’d be you, whoever you choose that to be. Only you get to decide who you are. If that’s ‘_10k_’, great. If it’s someone else, that’s okay, too.”

The smile tugging at his lips makes her heart feel light as he twists his hand in hers, dropping them down to their sides, sliding in close as they begin a gentle amble down the street, leaving that old car behind.

He looks down towards her as they walk, finally letting that beautiful smile wash across his face. “I like ‘_10k_’. Feels right. And…” His gaze briefly falters, tongue flicking out to lap nervously at his lips as a delicate pink tickles his cheeks. “…Garnett chose it for me.”

Moments like this – the soft ones when her friend is gentle and caring and honest – make all their missteps, their angered snarls, and their elbowed guts worth it. She wants to hide this side of him away, keep it all to herself, guard it like a dragon perched atop a mountain of all it holds dear, but she knows she can’t. That’s not what’s best for him. Not what he needs. And while he’s been opening up to the others more and more each day, there is one person he favours above all.

Cassandra never thought she could be so jealous of a man riddled with zombie bites.

“You really like Garnett, don’t you?”

Nodding, he lets his eyes drift back to the road ahead, steadily navigating them both around fallen branches and splintered wood. “He’s always looking out for people. Protecting them. Reminds me of…”

“Your dad?”

He doesn’t dare look back down towards her, his jaw clenched and shoulders stiff. She’s not worried. With the deep red now colouring his ears joining his already flushed cheeks, painting a pretty picture, Cassandra finds herself somehow becoming even more jealous of Murphy.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Ten. There is something so… _fatherly_ about him. It’s just how some people are.” Sliding her hand around in his, she laces their fingers, softly swinging their arms to and fro. It’s not often they get the chance to spend such peaceful time together, and from the small smile that won’t stop tugging at his lips, she knows that 10k relishes them as much as she herself does. “I think it may be mutual, though. How much you like him. You may not have noticed but Garnett has been looking out for you almost as much as Doc has. Kinda why he’s been so hard on Murphy.”

“He thinks Murphy’s gonna hurt me. Or get me killed.”

Yeah, no surprise there… Murphy’s an arrogant son of a bitch, looking out only for number one, so of course their ever-paternal leader is going to have his worries about the kid. And Garnett is no fool: he can see _exactly_ how licentious the heat in 10k’s eyes has become when he’s watching the man he’s been tasked with guarding. “And what do you think?”

“He wouldn’t do that. Murphy’s a good person.” Ten’s voice is firm, his words resolute, leaving little room for argument.

“Not sure many would agree with you on that.”

10k scoffs. “They don’t have to.”

She’s thankful Ten isn’t looking at her, too busy scanning their surroundings for any dangers to take in how relieved she is. Cassandra had known something like this was coming, knew all the signs of an identity crisis. After all, she’s gone through it once herself. She had also known that, if he stayed with such a compassionate family for long enough, his shell would begin to crack, and that she’d be waiting patiently on the other side to help pull him through.

But for a second, for one brief moment, she had wavered. Before the storm, in that dreary, colourless bedroom… When 10k had picked out that silk blouse, Cassandra’s heart felt like it had stopped dead in her chest. And she’d panicked. Thought that maybe she’d read him all wrong. That he was lost out upon a sea which she herself had never sailed, one which she wouldn’t know how to navigate, how to pull him from the icy waters and guide him to safe harbour.

So, when Ten had pointed out the flowers, the ones that reminded him so much of his home – of his father and his childhood – her fear had subsided. He hadn’t known, just didn’t realise that the shirt was intended for a woman, simple as that. Or… Maybe he _had_ known, but merely didn’t care. He favours practicality above all else, after all, and until recently he’s chosen to live largely by himself. Perhaps he sees clothes as just that: clothes.

Finally slipping his hand out of hers, 10k hunts around in his bag before pulling loose his bottle and taking a deep gulp. Well, Murphy’s bottle. The steel one. Suppose there’s not much use in naming the owner, though – those two have swapped them back and forth so often that it’s become too much of a chore to keep track of who has which one at any given moment in time. Might as well label both of them ‘_10k and Murphy’s_’. Cassandra would enjoy the sweetness of those two more if it wasn’t for the lack of available dental care…

10k offers the bottle to her but she waves it away with a grin. “No chance, Ten. I have _no idea_ where Murphy’s been or what he’s been up to. Who knows what I could catch‽”

Perhaps, once this is all over – once the mission has been completed and the cure made – she could ask Ten to take her to where he used to live. See if they can find any of those thistles that he loves so much.

After all, he’ll need a distraction from Murphy…

“You really like him, don’t you? Not sure I fully understand why.”

Ten shoves their bottle safely back into his bag, fighting to keep his face unassuming and innocent. He soon fails, though, letting out that rare, sly grin she’s quickly grown to love. “He’s tall, kinda broad. And that _beard_…”

She chuckles, heart lighter and more carefree than she’s felt in months. Years. “Well, if you like beards, I’ve got some wonderful news for you. There’re a lot more of them around now, thanks to the Apocalypse.”

His grin only widens, beaming down at her, a blue and monochrome Cheshire cat. “_I know_.”

“Lucky for some. Always preferred my men clean shaven and slightly chubby. Chubby guys give _the best_ cuddles.” Pressing into his side, relaxing into his warmth, Cassandra entwines their hands once more. “I had a date, you know. Just before all this started. We’d seen each other a few times but that date was the best of all of them. We’d gone to see a movie, some superhero thing.”

10k’s back to watching their surroundings, but he leans further into her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, letting her know he’s still listening.

“I didn’t care for the movie – not my thing. But Thiago? Wow! As he was driving me home, he _kept on talking_. I’d never seen anything like it! Didn’t understand a thing he was saying, all ‘_easter egg_’ this and ‘_cameo_’ that but… But it just didn’t matter. He was so excited, so _passionate_ about it! In that moment, I’d never seen anyone look so handsome. And you know what I did?”

Glancing up, she catches 10k’s eyes flicker towards her, his face awash with curiosity.

“I told him to pull over somewhere dark, then slid onto his lap. Ten, I’d never done anything so _forward_ before! And it was amazing!”

Thiago… Such a wonderful, loving man… The Zs had came before she’d had the chance to meet up with him again. While she’d never actually heard any news, never had his death confirmed, she knew. She’s always known. Not many people so kind-hearted made it through the early days, never mind Black Summer. Doc and Garnett really are more precious than anyone realises…

“So, then, Ten. Your turn.” Sending her own sly grin up at him, Cassandra raises her brows in hopeful anticipation. “When was the last time you had any?”

His step falters, a brief hesitation, one which she doesn’t mention. It’s still a subject he’s not always comfortable talking about. Which is why she never pushes it. “Was heading back west. Met a group going the same way.” Shooting her a quick glance, 10k shakes his head affectionately at her obviously triumphant pride – she’s managed to get to him open up about it! “Cowboy. Really liked killing Zs.”

“And…? What was his beard like?”

“Didn’t have one.” His face is schooled again, back to that façade of innocence. “But when _I _slid onto his lap, he let me wear his hat.”

Oh. Oh, wow. That’s… That’s a lot more info than he’s ever given her before. As an image begins to form in her mind, one she tries to push away, one of 10k in a Stetson, straddling an unknown man… Yeah, okay, no. She needs to think of something else. _Anything_ else. She shouldn’t be thinking of her closest friend like that, all sweaty and panting…

Fighting back the blush that’s threatening to crawl across her face, she looks up. Looks right at Ten. And he’s grinning at her, teeth sharp, a wicked glint in his eye. He knows exactly what he just did.

_Murphy better watch out. That selfish bastard has _no idea_ what he’s getting himself into! Hope he doesn’t end up biting off more than he can chew… Murphy’s right about one thing though. 10k _can_ be a little shit!_

They’re on the right street, now. Warren’s street. The buildings here are worse off than Cassandra had expected, their wooden panelling cracked, walls punctured by errant branches. Some of the houses are missing altogether, destroyed entirely by a force that no human could ever hope to contain.

Swinging his rifle from his shoulder to better secure it in hand, 10k tugs at Cassandra, pulling her into a faster pace.

As they round a car, one flipped onto its side, windows long gone, they see them. All of them. Some are a little dazed, others picking through the rubble, but each and every one of them are still standing. They’re okay. They’re alive. Their family is _still alive_!

10k’s hand tightens, his fingers biting into her skin, before he suddenly lets her go, speeding up to power on ahead alone. Cassandra slows her own pace to a jog, watching curiously as he makes a beeline for Doc. The lovable old guy raises his arm, grasping his beloved kid’s shoulder in a greeting as he arrives, an affectionate touch that Ten now feels comfortable enough to lean into.

The two men give each other a quick once over, checking for any obvious injuries, and then 10k is off again, this time heading straight for Garnett and Warren. He doesn’t stop moving this time, though, instead spinning on his feet as he checks in, taking a few steps backwards as he exchanges some words with their leaders, flashing a quick smile before facing forward once more. Still powering onward, pausing only to offer Addy a quick wave, Ten finally reaches his true finish line.

Murphy, his collar popped, jacket pulled closed tightly.

Murphy, his bald head peppered with cuts.

Murphy, his face freshly shorn.

But the kid takes it all in stride, not stopping until he’s standing toe to toe with the man before him. As his brows drop and lips move, 10k’s hands rise, smoothing down that popped collar, leaning forward as Murphy lifts his own arms. The man smirks, his amusement evident in how his eyes dance as fingers sink blissfully into blue silk.

“It’s a good thing you’re not the jealous type, what with how much attention the kid’s been giving Murphy lately.” Doc has sidled up beside her, his face lit up with an affectionate smile as he gazes down on her.

_Oh, this again…_ Doc really has grasped the wrong end of this stick, trying to play matchmaker for the kid, completely oblivious to who _really_ interests him. No wonder he always loses so badly to Murphy at poker… Not that Cassandra can totally blame the old guy: Ten can be a confusing mix of signals at the best of times, and he’s been actively trying to hide his sexuality from most of the group. Because of this, apart from the happy not-yet-a-couple, only herself and Garnett have been able to see through the kid’s front, and that’s likely due in part to how much time they’ve both spent watching him!

It doesn’t bother her, though. Doc’s futile attempts at matchmaking. It’s not like there is someone Cassandra is interested in, and even if she was, she’s not ready for that sort of relationship again yet. Also, on top of being intensely private about a lot of things, Ten simply isn’t ready to come out: if letting the others jump to their own conclusions about the nature of their relationship helps her friend in any way, Cassandra is happy to stay quiet.

Taking her silence as an attempt at denial, Doc giddily moves in closer, ducking his head and lowering his voice. “So, did you get to meet the Wizard? You skipped down the Yellow Brick Road holding hands and everything!”

Not rising to such obvious bait, Cassandra instead decides to gift the old guy a playfully concerned look and a much-needed warning. “With all this movie trivia you’ve been spouting, I really hope you’ve seen ‘_Rambo_’ more than once.”

Doc grimaces, glancing over to where 10k is perched atop half a wall, listening as Garnett speaks to him, Murphy obediently idling nearby. “Curiosity finally got the better of him, huh? Geez, how am I gonna spin this one? Kid’s gonna think Warren’s been insulting him more than Murphy has!”

“What’s happened to Murphy, anyway? Not sure I like the new look.” _Not sure what Ten makes of it, either…_

“No idea. Just came waltzing in, bald as a badger, then sassed Mack when he told him to help out. Spent most of the storm sat with Addy, keeping her company as we all worked on keeping that injured guy alive.”

The longer she looks at Murphy, the less she likes what she sees. Sure, his hair was all frazzled and patchy, but he could have just asked someone to give it a quick trim or kept an eye out for conditioner as they scavenged for supplies. Hell, 10k would probably have jumped at the chance to pay him back for those marbles.

Murphy really isn’t pulling off the bald look well. He could have at least kept the beard... From the little twitch of a frown that tugs at 10k’s lips every time he glances at the man – and he looks at Murphy _a lot_ – he likely isn’t too fond of the new look, either.

“So, Doc. How long does it take a beard to grow, anyway?”

~*~*~

Murphy’s head is ducked low, chin tucked into his chest, the scratchy wool of his sweater irritating his razor-burned skin. They are waiting for the others to finish scavenging this abandoned fire station. Him and 10k, that is. Because, of course, it’s 10k who is left by his side, an ever-vigilant bodyguard.

It’s _always_ 10k.

And Murphy doesn’t mind.

The kid is poking and prodding at the man’s cuts – the ones made by his attempts to shave with a too-sharp knife. He’d been so worried when he’d gotten back from his adventures with Cassandra and he’d seen the state that Murphy was in. A genuine uneasiness… It was sort of sweet, now that Murphy thinks about it.

Though 10k’s hands may be warm against the man’s skin, the honey he’s frugally daubing onto some of the deeper nicks is cold.

At first, Murphy had wanted to push back, to shut him down with a decisive ‘_no_’. Because, really? _Honey_? He’d never heard such hippy dippy bullshit in his life, and he’s been hanging out with Doc! But as the kid’s rambling went on and on, all ‘_antibacterial_’ this and ‘_healing process_’ that, he’d found that his reluctance had begun to waver. After all, if their resident survival nut believes so strongly in these apparent magical properties of fucking _honey_ of all things, then there must be something to it, right? Some little kernel of truth; an actual, legitimate benefit.

It’s not like indulging 10k and entertaining his incessant cossetting could do him any harm, though, so he’d eventually given in. Let the kid get his own way once again. Because it’s just honey, that precious, golden bee vomit, used to sweeten tea or spread on toast the world over. And if it makes his little shit happy, if it keeps him calm and grounded and at Murphy’s side, why _wouldn’t_ the man say yes?

He leans back into the side of the truck, his eyes slipping closed.

Okay, yeah, _fine_.

Murphy enjoys it.

Enjoys how 10k looks at him, the concern in his pale eyes aimed at _him_, not just the cure.

Enjoys how 10k has an almost instinctive urge to touch him, to distract him when his mind begins to wander somewhere dark, the contact reminding Murphy that he’s still here and he’s still alive.

Enjoys how 10k cares for him, how the rough hands of a hunter are still capable of such gentle touches, of the tenderness–

“Fuck! Watch it, kid!” Murphy hisses in pain, ducking out of 10k’s reach as his sticky fingers prod too hard at a cut.

“There. All done.”

He’s grinning.

The little shit is _grinning_!

He’d done it on purpose, likely seeing how relaxed Murphy had become, deciding to take some sort of sick, twisted pleasure at the man’s expense. Just because that stupid fucking black scarf is gone from around the kid’s slender waist doesn’t mean Murphy should no longer heed its warning.

He’s still 10k, the accomplished sniper, killer of over a thousand zombies, who’s survived alone for years. He’s not just gonna suddenly play _nice_.

The almost empty jar squirrelled back away inside his bag along with whatever-the-fuck else he keeps in there, the kid joins Murphy in leaning against the truck. Idly watching the fire station for any signs of their companions, 10k gently hums as he sucks at his fingers, the remnants of honey now tacky, pinked slightly with blood.

_Disgusting…_

Even though he still very much acts like his usual, uncivilized self, Ten certainly… looks different. _Feels_ different. And it’s not just his disaster of an outfit, either. Sure, he _appears_ less feral, the ditching of that hodgepodge of armour and accessories giving the kid the air of a well-travelled survivor rather than a rabid marauder. But this is something else. Something Murphy can’t quite put his finger on. A lightness in his step, a certainty in his gaze, like 10k is finally feeling comfortable in his own skin.

And it’s a good look on him.

The only major thing left for the kid to sort out is that horrendous mess he calls a haircut. Not that Murphy himself is one to speak, right now…

“Why did you shave? What was wrong with your beard?”

Murphy glances over, 10k now perched on the side of the truck bed. Always with the damn perching, like he’s a cat that has slunk up a tree, eyeing a bird he’s desperate to dismember. He takes good care of his claws, too, sharpening his knives almost as much as he cleans his hands, scraping away at the dirt and blood that builds up under his nails.

“Felt like a change.”

“Hmm…” Ten studies him, taking the time to _really_ look. Pale eyes attempt to pierce through the armour of truth, to peel back his layers and expose the still tender motivations. But then he blinks. Shrugs. Pulls back. Turning his attention to the fire station, 10k’s lips twitch, though whether it’s a smile or a frown that tugs at the corner, Murphy doesn’t know. “Make sure you grow it back before you kiss me.”

The bark of laughter that rips its way up Murphy’s throat is raw and unexpected, much like his endearingly enigmatic companion. _Always manages to catch me off guard…_

“Getting a bit ahead of yourself, there, kid. And anyway, what makes you think it’s gonna be _me_ that kisses _you_? Last time I checked, it’s only you who’s been making such lascivious insinuations. Hell, it’s only you who’s into men! Pretty sure it’ll be _you_ who’ll cave first. Then, you’ll come crawling to me, Princess, begging me to make you _mine_.”

10k angles his head, letting it loll gently to the side as he tilts his chin slightly up. Eyes heavy with something that Murphy cannot name, the young man motions absently to the rifle beside them as a sharp smile slowly slices its way across his face. A smile with the teeth too bared. “Sniper. Know how much patience can pay off.”

_Fuck_… When Ten means business, he really means it, holding nothing back. Murphy’s not sure how to feel, confident only in the relief that the young man isn’t _actually_ trying to flirt with him, that this is only a game, something to pass the time and stave off the boredom aroused by the monotonous miles.

Because if 10k _is_ serious, if he truly set his sights on the man, if he makes up his mind to pursue him… Well, it’s been so long since anyone has even _thought_ of looking at him that way that Murphy is unsure if he’d be able to resist for long.

Is that why Murphy’s been feeling this way? Why Ten has been able to slink so gracefully under his skin to dance along his every nerve? That it’s been long enough since he’s last held a woman in his arms that taking matters into his own hands, so to speak, simply isn’t cutting it anymore?

But then… Why 10k? It’s not like he’s the only option available, and he’s about as far from Murphy’s type as one could get.

The man has eyes. And he’s certainly seen _Warren_!

Suddenly self-conscious, Murphy jerks his jacket closer around himself, the twin bulges in his pockets pressing precariously into his scarred ribs. His pockets… Two soft lumps, both completely different, both meant for the same recipient. One, his last cigarette, saved for after the storm. The other…

“Look what I’ve got, Princess.” With a smirk, he pulls out the second lump. The fabric is soft as he twirls it between his finger. Sky blue and sunshine yellow, little cartoon bees flying on a clear, summer day.

“Socks…?” Ten slips down from his perch, tentatively reaching a hand outward, stopping just short, the tips of his fingers a whisper against cotton. “…For me?” When 10k peeks up at him, his face is vulnerable, his expression open and pure, full of more wonder than the man has ever before witnessed.

And Murphy cannot breathe.

So, instead, he simply nods.

Finally taking the socks in hand, 10k admires them before leaning into Murphy’s side as he lifts a foot, nimble fingers tugging the laces loose and the boot off. That ratty old pink sock is quickly yanked away, dropped to the road with little fanfare as sky blue takes its place. Wiggling his toes with a glee he doesn’t even care to try and mask, Ten lifts his face to meet Murphy’s eyes once more.

And smiles.

It’s all toothy and honest, lopsided and cute. Much cuter than Murphy thought that 10k would be capable of. That _any_ man should be capable of…

10k shoves his foot back into his boot then shifts, twists, using Murphy for support again as he makes quick work of changing the other sock. And the man doesn’t complain. He lets Ten press in close, hands coming up to rest on the young man’s waist, willingly taking his lean weight. It’s such an easy price to pay for those honest, unguarded expressions.

With 10k’s work complete and the old, discarded socks kicked haphazardly under the truck, Murphy reaches once more in his pocket. A lighter clicks, their common vice ignites, and they both turn one last time towards the fire station to await the return of their companions.

As they pass their last cigarette back and forth, if the two men stand a little closer than ever before…

Well, neither of them mentions it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs lyrics referenced in the first scene are from 'The Governess' by Metric.
> 
> This story is finally finished. 10k has finally settled in. And Murphy is still kinda oblivious.
> 
> The next story will be something a little different, taking place entirely between episodes 5 and 6. I hope you stick around to read it.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think of this chapter, and the series so far - each comment gives me the motivation to drag these chapters past their horrendous first drafts.
> 
> Thanks for reading! And I'll hopefully see you next week!
> 
> <3


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